Turn up in droves, drive away quickly in droves.
It's the speed and the furious that die the quickest. Death whishes and shooting stars. Racing the last train to your stop on a wet Toronto evening.
Fasting. A strange word for people for whom time is slowing to a crawl. At least, that's how (I) get when (I)'m hungry. Everything is slow. I feel I must be speaking in tongues time is so slow. But everyone simply nods and understands and thinks I'm witty.
No, I'm not witty, I've got subjective minutes between your utterances and my responses, and once I've spent a minute filtering out the screaming and drooling and the empty belly aching, I take the other two formulating something wonderful and coherent for you to think about. I have to be careful, though: if I'm too eloquent, you'll take aeons to respond and I'll loose our conversational thread.
Fasting. Nope, not even when I'm not eating.