An old wooden chair stands infront of you, its legs outstretched, as if inviting you warmly. The only problem is a protruding block of lard sat upon the middle of the cushioned chair, and a phallically shaped strip of cement forcing its way inbetween it. On the floor concrete bones are surrounded by fat and placed in a manual, bricklaying like manner.
As I pressed my feet down upon the lard, it squashed, distorted itself. My weight breaks apart the concrete seals that contain the malleable lard. And I too am acted upon, the concrete breaking apart, cutting, tearing the skin on the soles of my feet. The soft, apologetic lard then hugs and clings to my new found wounds.