There's a point beyond which it's hard to believe I could become more cynical; I'm crippled from the inside, and I can't watch one more commercial or drink one more beer. I've had a fourteen mushroom cocktail and my stomach won't quit complaining; eaten so much culture, I'm puking eletronic newspaper and video politics are coming out my anus. In my brain is one way the world could be, and in my brain is the color green and the color red, and in my brain is a vivid scene about a girl's genitalia and some family dog on fire: his red red swinging fur on golden retriever body: ON FIRE!

And I'm optimistic about my chances, and I'm liking parties and weekend sports played during the week, and living off the land. I'm happy about today. Pretty worried about next year. I'm interested in going to bed, but thinking one more drink will be just all right. Thinking one more toke will be just fine, and I'm thinking the grains of sand in the all world together. Believing that hard work pays off over time.

I like muscians. They're so necessary! They let me believe whatever I want about their songs. And I like writers who explain the world through a story, and painters who paint, and actors who don't talk.


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