Gluttony Is Impossible

Curtains. Light, a spotlight.

Applause, then silence. The curtains rise.

A Prometheus Labs-branded Temporal Advancement Anchor Chamber.

A female body, naked, soulless, a duplicant. The performance will be destructive.

A woman.

She takes the microphone.

"Maslow placed hunger atop his hierarchy alongside water, warmth, and rest. The need to satisfy one's hunger is instinct so primal and deeply rooted in our minds that we simply cannot ignore it. Hunger drives an honest person to steal, the proud to beg, and the devout to sin. Simply put, the human mind cannot stomach to be hungry for long."

Subdued laughter runs through the crowd.

The Anartist smirks.

"As citizens of the first world, this is not a problem for you and I, and likely will never be. Food is so plentiful we discard it if we are unsatisfied with it, we have food fights, we even hold contests to see who can eat the most. What we consider normal is luxury to those in less fortunate places. Last year, Thailand was affected by the most devastating earthquake in the area of the last hundred years. Despite the United Nation's best efforts to feed the victims of this catastrophe, they only have so many resources. How cruel is it that I, someone who will starve for the sake of art, can enjoy the luxuries of replacing my body at will while they cannot so much as eat once a month?"

An uncomfortable silence.

The wealthy understand their privilege and do not like being reminded of it.

"Now, going without food for a few hours is not a problem. Even a day is nothing. But what about a week? A decade? A thousand years?"

Gasps, murmurs, and shocked whispers at her daring.

She strips, she strides towards the Chamber and sets it to 1,000 years.

It is small. It is uncomfortable. What flavor will her vintage bear?

An assistant rushes onto the stage, sealing the Chamber with the Anartist inside.













It has begun.



















She twists.

She withers

She gnarls.





but she does not die.





She lives.





She looks like death







She is a husk

frail and brittle





a faint, pale shadow











surviving but not living.

in the clutches of life.







































































