Surround yourself with what you love, they say. I offer something more direct: I pause at the moment when food sits hot and immediately cooling, cheese is partially liquid, the oil separated and being absorbed into everything it contacts. The plate's integrity wanes whilst we add chilli, add oregano, dab up the grease if you're that sort of loser. A slice is a frivolous, momentary thing. Never made to last. A single slice is a snack, not a full meal, although it can become one. I'll have another once I've finished. Order one at a time; it must be straight out of the oven, cooked for the second time. I've cooked it for the last time. I place it on the page where I hope the grease feels like it's questioning the integrity of the paper I've drawn on. It smells of too many people on the streets of New York, it smells of nights still going when they should be over, smells of the United States, where the people call it the most powerful country in the world. But it's not political, it's just pizza. Remove me from your country, and I will still love thy products. Banish me from partaking, but I will take what I learnt, what I loved and what I, in the most American way, turned into a profit and capitalised on the capitalist nation. What is it to be American if it's not to want more, strive for more, sit on a curb as an immigrant and watch the immigrants make your food, the food immigrants brought to the country from Italy. It's not political, it's just a slice.