I crave a fine bowl of cabbage soup, pepper rightly pounded in mortar and pestle. Those artificers with their fancy hand-mills. Makes the food taste of metal while I rest upon glass. 

Give me stone between my teeth, dirt between my toes that I might claw and scratch my way across the world. 

At least my eyes can rake over the planes and through the mists... Well, no, it's a newspaper. But it will do. And what's this? A carnival? How fun...