Chief among them, the memory of fried chicken taunts me relentlessly, its crispiest exterior, tender flesh a distant dream in the desolate wasteland of my fasting existence. In the vast expanse of hunger that stretches before me, the craving for fried chicken looms like a towering monolith, casting a shadow over my resolve with each passing hour. Like a captain adrift in a sea of longing, I find myself yearning for the tastes of salty skin sucking the meat, a beacon of comfort in the storm of deprivation