Breakfast I came here for pancakes and raspberry jam, black pudding with bran flakes, granola on spam, but my ill-fated plan takes a tumble… and BAM! A outcroppy landscape rears up. Here I am surrounded by grackles of nibby-sharp shape. I puff up my hackles. I fluff up my nape. A thundercloud crackles. Weird vortices gape. I rattle my shackles and plot my escape… but daylight turns midnight. The grackles turn vulture, alight on the tip of a crackling sepulcher, critique my cuisine with their cackling culture: No orange juice, orchids, or grape nuts! They toss the bowl into a wasteland that’s gaping, uncrossable. These condors turn conqueror. Escape is impossible.