The Lighthouse Blog FEED

My Dad was a fireman in Frankfurt. The unit that goes in when everyone else is coming out. Between calls, they cooked together - because men doing that job feed each other properly. Someone has to. He never got that at home. This is about the hunger that doesn't announce itself. The kind that hollows a man out gradually, while he's still standing, still functioning, still doing everything expected of him. Nobody notices. Including him.

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