The craving for the fleshy petunia can never be satisfied, only temporarily slaked. It gnaws at your being, like a crazed rodent of the soul, until the irresistible urge climaxes once again and you are sent wildly hunting in the museums of the night for the only fruit that will quench your desire: the fleshy petunia.
The yards of the town are plentifully stocked with the calmer, tamer flowers. Marigolds, zinnias, and the like are scattered everwhere. For a moment, your heart involuntarily leaps at the sight of a petunia - but it is only the mundane variety, a mere mocking shadow of the One True Fleshy Petunia. You must continue your quest, snuffling and snorting, searching will all your senses, even though your disconnected intellect knows that the fleshy petunia is not here.
After many long hours of searching, your mortal body is worn out, goaded unmercifully beyond the limits of its endurance by the immortal, immoral, crushing lust for the fleshy petunia. You collapse. Your muscles are exhausted, but deep within your swollen skull, there are neurons that cannot rest. Your brain, having cut itself off from the outside world in its paroxysms of need, achieves what few can: reality is subjectivized, yours to mold. The hunger stays in control, guiding the world, shaping your existence, and for a brief time, you awaken in the garden of the fleshy petunia. Hungrily you suck on its bitter petals, knowing that this is the only way to exorcise the dreadful demonic longing, and that the bliss that will shortly be yours is the only compensation for the pain in its achievement.