First time.

Taste it, my friend urged. How we resist the unknown. Now. I was nudged into dipping a silver fork into garlic-pungent butter melted to golden pond, and thrusting into my still recalcitrant mouth the morsel that made me think, shudderingly at first, then stunningly, of gardens lush with seed sunlight and shadows, myself in a chair with a book, half dreaming. I swallowed vision and snail, rejoicing at creation, all its slimy stinking marvels, and the sprite which scampers somewhere behind the ribcage, named, yea verily, Courage.