Where the slug licks, there lick I. Where the womb of the soil grows eyeteeth and cysts, there bloats the wounded boar, there sinks the moon of our desire. Kick rock, break toe bone, chase what doesn’t live, flee what never was. Lie back and let the fungus do its job. You see shapes in the clouds, but they don’t see any shape in you. You enjoy getting drunk more than water does. Assume animal position, speak to the grave-gunk that blankets spinball of our hopeless awakening. Personally, I’d rather be on the open sea, under an impossible storm, where the needle runs demented through the points and I might as well be no-there at all.