I have lost my ability to do many things. But not all. But not all things. Far from it. Most of my bones are ceramic replacements. My eyes are fake. So is my heart. I am now hooked up to a battery that, like most batteries, will run down. My eyes to the dark and you shall know of things, but not this next year, or maybe the one after that, just wait, be patient, go with god, fuck god. Just go. No, we do not fuck. We met in Sturgis. It was like having sex in Kmart. Andrew could walk into any bar, get served, and served again. The owners of bars would try to recruit him because people in bars like what they see, and do not see what they do not like. It was always a gamble. Roulette. The next night, Sturgis would consume him. The people who do not believe that can go fuck themselves. Andrew is a typical adolescent. A whore in the making. Impatient above all else and a dimensional construct of B-4 equalling spacetime nibbles on mescaline, and a cup of coffee. The kind of coffee matters. The caffeine kind. Andrew is patient. I am a patient. As long as I do not have to stay more than two days, and I will just walk out like cake, I am all disease. I have not forgotten how to run from cops. “Andrew.” My eyes to the sky. “Andrew.”

“Hhhmmmm.”

“Earth to Andrew. Earth to Andrew.”

“It’s witches from Scotland.”

“Tell me something I don’t know, Andrew.”

All names are frozen into a timeline. Witches from Scotland like a steady call from wolves who know time from night after night of perhaps just a bit too close.