I taste mushrooms in my dreams sometimes. Almost sweet, almost nutty, they taste like a thick slab of moss heated up and sucked dry. Eating a mushroom is like eating a piece of the forest. If I wasn’t scared of being poisoned I’d like to taste all the wild kinds of mushrooms there are – those lemon-colored ones wearing white lacy veils; the Black Helveticas that look like deer turds; the magical mushies that cluster together in fairy rings; the flat-topped shrooms that look like Swedish pancakes waiting for jam; the brown ones with red slimy tongues erupting from their bellies — I could go on but I won’t. I guess you can tell that I admire the infinite variety and endless creativity of mushrooms. I want to write like a mushroom, bringing color and life out from the dense, dark undergrowth covering the grave.