Trick or treat!
HA! You've been tricked. Really, now, it's Halloween. There's only one kind of food anyone cares about today, and it comes nicely wrapped from the store.
So instead of food, I offer a tribute to the English poet John Keats, who was born on this day in 1795 and died of tuberculosis at age 21. This is his final poem:
This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
And in the icy silence of the tomb,
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
That thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
And thou be conscience-calm’d—see here it is—
I hold it towards you.