And then one day none of his pants fit him anymore. Twelve pairs of pants, and not a single one that connects around his waist. He tries explaining this to his son. His son is fifteen months old, and more concerned with whether or not he can fit his hand in his mouth than whether or not his father’s pants fit his father. The world consists, as far as the son can tell, with things he can and things he cannot fit into his mouth. The son will grow up, and eventually stop putting things in his mouth, but the attitude will remain essentially unchanged. His father, who by then will have long since stopped caring about whether or not his pants fit, will look on at the son, who continues to explore what he can and cannot consume. The son chews up girlfriends and lovers and other sons and entire families and small city blocks and large city blocks and more food and more food. One day he will consume me, the father will think. But first let me eat this nice thick steak…