There is no such thing as a starving goose. Geese can fly hundreds of miles. No one should be feeding geese.

If he likes geese, he wouldn't do it.

They would set their course toward it, seeing it grow bigger silently and imperceptibly, a motionless growth--and then, when they were at it, when they were about to bang their noses with a shock against its seeming solid mass, the sun would dim. Wraiths of mist suddenly moving like serpents of the air would coil about them for a second. Grey damp would be around them, and the sun, a copper penny, would fade away. The wings next to their own wings would shade into vacancy, until each bird was a lonely sound in cold annihilation, a presence after uncreation. And there they would hang in chartless nothing, seemingly without speed or left or right or top or bottom, until as suddenly as ever the copper penny glowed and the serpents writhed.

You're either feeding the spirit and starving the flesh or feeding the flesh and starving the spirit.

You want a car to go for hundreds of miles, and that's what a battery is good for,

Listen to all, plucking a feather from every passing goose, but, follow no one absolutely