In a hidden corner of the world, ruled by King Burt, who wielded a bell instead of a sceptre, I stood under trees whose branches were wrapped in sheepskin. Harry the Wise floated in on his flying carpet and proclaimed:
“I fear not the man who has practiced 10,000 kicks once, but I fear the man who has practiced one kick 10,000 times.” 1
No sooner had the bell struck its first stroke than the earth began to spin in a surreal dance. “It used to be easier just to eat. Today it’s a dance on the volcano of group identities, moral tightrope dances and health divinations,” whispered the wind. Menu plans swirled like leaves in a storm, lost in a maelstrom of calorie counting, nutritional advice and sheer bizarreness.
Torn between apples that tasted of the deepest thoughts and a soup that revealed hidden images of the future, Burt’s bell rang once more. “In this world, it’s less about the food itself and more about how often you swing your spoon,” Harry muttered. “This is the key to everything.”
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Bruce Lee ↩︎