He speaks of this sauce as a grail I must seek, that if I do not undertake the quest it is possible I could become lost in words and more words, or worse, trying to save the world. I’ve no reason to trust him other than I’m weary of reasons. So I swear myself an enemy of our culture’s logorrhea as he offers me a glass of red. This man has no tolerance for white. His madness demands color. He says so will mine. I left with a lust for the sweetness that cuts through the mustard.