It was not an afternoon. You smoked a few joints and you jumped. Right straight into a lot of lives. I get sex. The only thing left to write about is sex and death. The furies. The Furies and the Changelings are the ones who usually survive whatever is thrown at them like toxicity in everything we eat. And then we shit it out. I write about my reality. It’s not about you, and it never was. It’s always all around me, like water that has made the licking of the lips and tongues who have conspired to breed their lizard brains out. Your tongue will tell you where to go, and it’s easily fooled by the Venus Fly Trap.  We are all the Venus Fly Trap. Our lies about who we are truly pisses Authority off. Trapped. Naked. And alone. The alone part is fundamentally delicious.