Feel your wings. Think of the tasty smell of putrification. But I still don't love rocks. As a matter of fact, I don't love stars, or rocks or anything except my mother. Perhaps you should imagine yourself a termite.
Termites eat wood, or stalks of straw or vegetables.
I want to eat, and I want to eat something good, a nice juicy yellow-back fly. No more Mr. Nice guy. This fly is history.