Granted. You are awarded with a pillow of gooey marsh and without much thought you resolve to eat it. You're pleasantly surprised. It tastes fine. In fact, it tastes great. The faint texture is the perfect consistency. The sweetness, the stickiness, you can't call to mind the last time something so simple gave you so much pleasure. You try to savour it for as long as you can; for two minutes, uninterrupted, gustatory bliss. The last morsel fizzles on your tongue, taken downstream by a tide of salivary liquid to rest with the rest in your gut. And then nothing. The taste leaves you. With it, a piece of your heart leaves too. You resolve that this can't be the end - you glimpsed divinity for but a moment. There had to be more to come. 

So you spend much of your following years searching for new highs and thrills. You dabble in pastries and puddings, but nothing seems to satisfy you quite as well anymore. You accrue bad habit after bad habit, addiction after addiction, distance your friends, your family, until you finally lose the dream. You pick yourself up, straighten your tie and you try to make the most of the rest of your life. You give it your best shot. But you can't. You aren't young anymore - you let the prime of your life pass you by, constantly chasing your highest point, the day you experienced marshmallowey heaven. And the rest of your life pales in comparison. You die, alone, having achieved nothing of note, just another nameless victim of Time.

I wish for a pet rock!