trying to get the funny medieval peasants to try my future dorito and accidentally stumbling onto the communal fencepost hosting one of many rural german cat-mutilating games that will later be a wedge in relations between the urban and agricultural communities, shocking me into a months-long silence
getting served what can only be described as "mold from a random log of fallen wood floating in a stein of watered-down beer" as a gift in return for the doritos and getting an experience that can only be described as "Protestant Ayahuasca"
going south to seek some sort of normalcy which I might disrupt, where in the refuge I am served something which dripped from a statue. I ask what it is. it's from the bones inside, I am told, and it leaks forever, and it brings an ecstatic state
The peasants will occasionally hearken back to you, in years to come, as the strange traveler with the unusually melancholic disposition—in reference to your distress at encountering normal everyday things. Only very rarely do they recall your odd bag of fried pasta with what could best be described as a petty-aristocrat amount of seasoning.
If that, honestly.
prevailing complaint: they were not sweet enough
