Everyone from Dirt Bike Town gets it. No one expected to land in Dirt Bike Town. We just all fell here from the sky. It wasn’t Key West. I remember the spaceships. I thought they were fucking spaceships because they were fucking spaceships. People wanted out, but there was a battery of genetic tests and so this is how it begins.  They have spaceships because they stole our spaceships which should have been guarded by men with guns and shotguns and pit bulls. Get the dog out of the office. He cannot see you today, or ever again. Face the music. It’s not about the music. It’s about what all the lyrics were surrounded by. A glorious will to bursting, I just call it survival and have at it. This is it. I am not using a pseudonym, and I not claiming to be anyone I am not, and never have claimed to have swept the dust having caused a stir among the pilgrims who preferred to mop. There was a lot of blood to mop up, and in the Middle East that is all anyone did, mop it up, bring it down, starve it. But the blood will flow like a vanishing, and some of the humans survived the vanishing. To find their world had in a sea of troubles flesh enough by one sleep perchace must give you pause. But it never does. It never does. First, New Orleans. Where we figured out that anywhere there were wallets and car keys there would be trouble, Titty Bars attract men like flies, and then they pull away. This is called the life. A lot of it is alcoholism. We are going to cure alcoholism with one pill. But by then, we would be in the Everlades which is not Dirt Bike Town. It’s a chop shop with alligators as big as a house. Know this: it’s an addiction – all of it – because the thrill is in the rush that way a jet is released of its own gravitas. And the wheels are beginning to smell of smoke, Agnes was on lookout for cops or she was the driver. The Driver’s Rush is to break the holds of equilibrium.