Hear your fate, O famished sustenance seeker, for I have come to quell your hunger.

Yearning and downtrodden you may be, remember that the Fates forever spin their wheel.

Know you not that raindrops  must race down glass panes,  that the sun comes to dry sodden skin?

Hear now - Friday comes after Thursday and Saturday after that, and there are specials every Sunday: two, two-topping medium pizzas.

Wait not in despair, for bears still sleep in the winter and when they wake hungry, flowers will stretch away into the spring.

Pray remember that the price of cycles of laundry is the occasional sock but O is it not a worthy price for the feeling of a towel, freshly plucked from the dryer?

In your fiercest battle, your greatest trial from the Gods themselves, someone will cradle your hand and insist it will be okay. It will be okay.

As the mundane, cyclical safety comforts, the pizza will always drip with the right amount of grease - that's our promise, as sure as the Aegean Sea carries ships across its currents.

Here, I have the machine ready. You'll pay by card - no one pays cash anymore.