A morbid prelude

I read about a New Yorker’s fantasies…stuffing a woman’s body in an oven, cooking her on low temperature and having her served for lunch on Mother’s Day. The news reached me late last night,…shared on a website with 18000 others.
The community for cannibals apparently grows, exponentially with the number of vegetarians.
I thought of Sylvia’s fate.
Chosen willingly             ?
She was a good woman.
She must have been.
Everyone remembers her platonic verse nowadays.
The first time I read her, she wrote of mushrooms…and there is a neon light somewhere in this memory.
Uranium, kryptonite, who knows, I could not say now.
It was one of the rare occasions when I was aware of that a writer unites so much force and power that there can only be two options: expansion or self destruction. The one becomes hero…the other a martyr.
Secretly I know there is a third group: the ones who await a fate like the sun.

”There is no way I die a quiet death.” 
She bows to the audience, exposing just as much of her decollete as to cause desire in man and woman, then her posture straightens and walks in a thin line off the stage.

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