This mountain of grated cheese

I sat here, slowing falling through the parmesano reggiano, like an olive lost in a history of grey tribute bands. At the top of the pile, the cheese felt soft and pillowy, like I was on top of the world and the world was soft, pillowy cheese. Does it matter that this cheese was aged?

   Like does aged cheese transmit the horrors of its times?


( will, 16 years from now ,  cheese transmit this message spray painted on the back of a high school entrance billboard:

"

Build the wall #MAGA

"

but 'Billboard' is not the right word. Maybe 'marquee'? 

Not the right word, but painted with 'right' words, am I right????

Maybe that painter kid ate Mussolini Cheese and was infected with the same strand of hate that has passed through the guts of those Germans and what not.)

Anyway, back to the story about cheese mountains:

The pillows of whiteness envelop me. Sharp and nutty. Tangy. Wielding patio torches.