My first hot meal tastes of what I imagine to be gravel. It's bland and hard and lacks flavor, almost as if the chefs know no such thing of salt and pepper.
My head is throbbing as though billions of needles are poking away at it, and I feel like if I attempt to put any of the food in my mouth it will come back up instantaneously.
So I wait there for a prolonged period of time, looking to the large window on the wall left of my empty table, hopeful that if I sit for long enough I may return to the place I once called home.
I sit for a very long time.