You father's love of gizzards and eggs reminds me that my mother loved livers. My shiftlessness was a woe to her, but when I'd get out the cast iron skillet to work my magic on a mess of livers for her, my unambition would be forgiven.

I suspect that only a last minute edit saved us from:
"His soul swooned slowly as he heard the urine falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead."

I'm with No. 3 -- it's disgusting and gorgeous and visceral and perfect.

now i'm really craving gizzards and livers...the inner white trash midwestern boy in me needs fed.