I am eating a raw hot dog. The crows are looking at me eating the raw hotdog with their shiny black heads bopping around. The crows are amused. Most of us in the Writing Coven do not listen, My little coven in the coven (there are only six of us, and only a thousand Huns of them with pitch forks and mops and those pitch forks were very sharp. And Ivan the Terrible (who was Russian) and I had the same sad dream on the same night, but in different spacetimes. I am here to tell you it was not me. I could never do anything like that and all of this was a created campaign to humiliate me. Okay. I’m humiliated. You’ve seen me naked. Now what. . The French hate me. The stuff about identity Their Eyes To the Skies. Proves that their point over Grim Disguise and over and again, that some of this is drifting. That is how it is. Most of us in the Little Coven understand that this is anything but drifting. It is choreography that is kinda like the Spirit Guide, and I am not allowed to speak to drifting — maybe grifting, who knows I think we are drifting in the oceanfront, of what, of condominiums we need another parking space down here in Miami and we have to help the really old people on the elevator down up it did not add up to much either way in cups upon the River Styx and old guys like me who are not like me whatsoever, I am autistic, everyone, everyone, everyone who has ever met me comprehends I’m Off. Ask them. Why would I care. Do I appear to be Perry Mason to you. Or do I appear like. A Mad Mad Della Street in a play about madness itself these people have no Idea (Remember Ideas) who the hoot gives up the toot. How is it that this animal becomes the software coven. You can buy this shit on Amazon. Piece by piece. Eon after eon of Revolutions of The Bugs. I like the one that has a real bug up its ass over All You Need to know is how to put It together. It looked liked the PiecesFromHell. I don’t know shit about software. I know this: pretense is a mouthful. My decisions were based on heath care and survival and I wanted to survive. I do not know why. It’s a knee-dirt cocksuck. I wanted those meds. I had in a matter of 46 hours somehow in a laundry of highly radioactive Pee Dirt From a Playground. Drive this train but Fuck Me. Who had faith in touching. Shoot me in the head and shrink me when I’m dead. The Old People kept looking around for the Elevator Lady whose reflection can only be seen as shadows upon the cold marble walls. Chanel Number Five. Going down. We are all the ElevatorLadyladymoreAnAperture. Going down. Down. Basement. You were at the loading dock. I do not remember a loading dock. The doors open to reveal the suits behind the covens of the dazzled stars. She had been here and everywhere before. Most of us in the Writing Coven do not listen. Have never listened. We will probably never listen.