It’s quiet in the house, save for the tea kettle steam engine puffing on the stovetop. The whistle now pierces the air, and she goes to move it away. She sighs, readies her tea cup, and pours in the hot water. As it steeps on a cold Halloween morning, she moves the window curtain aside and gazes out into the backyard. There a figure stands, still as stone, red eyes glowing in the head. The woman quickly moves the curtains back, presses a hand to her heart, and wonders. Surely it is merely an illusion, she thinks. How could there be somewhere there? She was out in the deep country in a lone house surrounded by trees and space to breathe. If I just move the curtain aside again, he’ll be gone, she thinks.
Once more, she moves the curtain aside and peers out. There the figure stands, the red eyes even closer now. She quickly moves the curtain back and dashes to the front door. She presses her body against it, checks the lock, and looks through the peephole. There, a red eye looks back at her. “Go away!” she screams as she backs away from the door. Then there comes the pounding. So hard that the door rattles. The woman screams again and darts upstairs. She moves to the wall phone in the hall, picks up the receiver, and discovers the line is dead. Downstairs, the pounding continues. She returns the receiver to its cradle and the phone suddenly rings. She picks it up with a trembling hand. “Hello,” she says in a whimper. “Let me in,” the voice on the other end hisses. “Or you’ll be sorry.”
Then she hears the front door downstairs shatter and crumble. The thing out there has kicked it in. A muffled voice calls out, “Anybody home!?” Then there’s a laugh, a laugh like no other she has ever heard. She slips to the floor, so scared and panicked she can no longer move. Then she sees the figure loping its way up the stairs. He’s holding an axe. The red eyes are on fire. The mask surrounding them is hideous. The figure reaches the top of the stairs and the spot where the woman is hunched against the wall and crying. He holds the axe high above his head and lets out a horrifying scream of impending violence and death. Then as the terrified woman whimpers and moans there on the floor, the figure lowers the axe and removes the mask. He works to loosen the mechanical eyes. He looks down at her and grins, “Hey honey, Happy Halloween.”
It’s Christmas Eve in a town the color of burgundy and pine
Cold stars and tattered clouds float within the inky-bruised canopy
Store windows glow yellow, the brick of the small buildings are the color of slightly burnt toast
People shuffle along the walks frosted with fresh snow
They peek into the shop portals and feel awe in their guts
There’s the smell of wood smoke in the air
Snow slowly falls and the world is night white
A glow-worm bomb cascades from the moon
Refrigeration hums in the sundry shop
Eyes spin in the fruit heads that lie there
The faithful gather at the church on the corner
A white rigid lance pointing to the heavens
Mistletoe muffins are passed around with glorified giggles
Soon everyone is kissing
And God draws the shades
Bible-like fornication ensues on the pews
The angels and the Earth women
Erich von Däniken bursts through the door and exclaims:
“I knew it! I was right.”
Homes are cold on Christmas morning
The rising sun begins to crackle the ice
A boy and a girl scamper down the stairs to see what Mr. Claus has brought them
But in his stead there are creatures by the lighted tree
The aliens are busy stacking presents wrapped in silver and gold
Their large eyes blossom and their heads turn
The girl screams, the boy runs back upstairs
One of the visitors holds out a cockle squash
The girl’s mind suddenly changes
She goes to the aliens and takes the oddly shaped gourd
She holds it in front of her face, and she wonders
As she sees space within it
Floating stars, zooming orbs, spinning planets
Is this another mind?
Or a diamond mine?
The aliens suddenly retreat through the walls
The fireplace lights up on its own
The girl reaches up and puts the cockle squash on the mantel
She steps back, cocks her head to one side and looks at it
Christmas music on the hi-fi warbles and then comes to full life
The parents and the boy come rumbling down the steps
“What happened down here!?” the father wants to know
The girl turns to look at them
“Hello, my P and M. We had visitors from Christmas space… And they gifted us with a cockle squash.”
She points to the mantel
And everyone claps and smiles
“I’ll get us some egg nog,” the mother says, and she rushes off to the kitchen
The father stands with his children
One on each side
And they worship the gourd with their eyes
“There is something so odd and mystical about it,” the father says
The girl looks up and asks: “After Christmas, do you think I can keep it? I think I’d like to sleep with it.”
The boy laughs out loud. “Only a weirdo would sleep with a cockle squash.”
“Shut up, Brian!” the girl snaps
“Stop it. Both of you,” the father demands
The mother returns to the room holding a tray
“Let’s sit down and sip this egg nog faithfully,” she says. “And then we’ll get ready for church.”
“We don’t need church,” the girl says. “We have the gourd.”
“How dare you speak of such a thing!” the mother scolds
She reaches out a hand and slaps the girl across the face
The girl winces and begins to cry
“Now listen here, Mabel. There is absolutely no need for that! It’s Christmas for Christ’s sake,” the father berates…
And the aliens watch the drama unfold in the household with the cockle squash. They can view everything through it… the screams, the taunts, the disappointed reactions to Christmas gifts, the lack of true joy in Amorika. For they are the angels watching. Not from clouds, but ships.
He thinks about the maddening world and the chaos and the pain
His white face and green mouth are showing sadness
Maybe I should show up at work naked, he thinks. That will shake things up, maybe knock some sense into somebody.
He works at the permanent circus
On the boulevard by the bay
I’ll just stroll in wearing only my make up. People will probably scream, but I don’t care. I’ll give them something to scream about. Someone will probably rush at me with a fire-proof blanket because I’d be so hot. They’d smother my nakedness, blot it out, curse the shame.
The waitress comes by the table by the window where it’s raining outside and refills his coffee.
“I didn’t know clowns like coffee so much,” she says with a smile.
He looks up at her and sarcastically grins. “What do you think clowns drink? Fruit punch?”
“Something like that.”
“Hey, let me ask you something. Do you ever desire to show up at work completely naked?”
“Sir?”
“Do you ever want to come to work completely naked… Maybe wearing only your little waitress apron you got on.”
“Oh, heaven’s no. What kind of question is that.”
“It’s a question too many people are afraid to ask. There is far too much censorship of the mind in this world. I myself would like to show up at work naked, except for my makeup and wig, of course.”
“Why would you do that?” the waitress asks.
“Because nobody ever does. Because I want to rattle people. Because I want to show off my bits and pieces. I want to produce some mental voltage to shock people awake. Everyone is so dead inside.”
“Well, that all sounds a bit screwy to me,” the waitress says. “I would never do anything like that. I think you might be a bit mental.”
“So you believe boldness is a deficiency?”
“No… It’s just, people don’t do such strange things as coming to work naked. You’d probably get fired.”
The clown sips at his coffee and turns back to looking out the window. He scoffs at the world. “I suppose you’re right. I need this clown job or else I’ll starve and die. Isn’t that something? Chasing green paper in order to survive and to get the green paper you have to be a slave to this horrible social system we have. And then they never give you enough green paper so you’re always struggling just to get by. It’s all planned out. It’s rigged to where the worker will always be trapped working until they die. It’s so sad really. You’d think the human race would be so much more useful. But no, there is no end to this I suppose. We’ll keep on breeding and bring more and more desperate souls into the world. Have you ever noticed how children are so much different than adults? Then society takes a hold and molds them into corporate slaves. That’s why school starts so early. They’re already conditioning them to sell their time away for nearly nothing, for meaningless things.”
“Maybe you should pray about it.”
The clown laughs out loud and other patrons begin to stare. “Yes, yes. I’ll use telepathy aimed at a big white man in the clouds who never grants wishes. Do you really think a loving god would allow so much suffering and turmoil?”
“You shouldn’t talk like that,” the waitress sternly says. “That’s blasphemy.”
“Is it? You know what I believe? I believe the angels and the gods are all aliens from other planets. Our ancient ancestors were so shocked by their advanced technology that we dubbed them higher powers.”
“Oh, that’s ridiculous,” the waitress protests. “I don’t have time for this. I have to get back to work.”
“Of course, you do. We all do. That’s all we are in the end. Worker bees.”
The clown walks out of the house completely naked and gets into his car. He drives to the permanent circus on the outside of town. He parks, gets out, and walks toward the entrance of the circus. He steps into the tent and thrusts his arms into the air. He moves to the center ring and completely exposes himself to the stunned crowd. Suddenly someone stands up and starts clapping. It’s the waitress from the diner and the clown is shocked to see her. More people stand up and start clapping. More and more. Then the entire crowd breaks into a raucous cheering. And it’s at that point that something very strange happens. The entire audience begins to shed its clothing until everyone under the big top is completely naked and bouncing with enthusiasm.
The clown looks around at what he has done, and he is happy for it. He grins with joy. I’ve sparked a little rebellion here today, he thinks. A mighty and naked rebellion.
A gunshot suddenly goes off, and the police begin to stream into the tent. Someone barks over a megaphone, “Put your clothes back on! Put your clothes back on! Follow our orders or you will be detained and shipped off to a horrible prison in a foreign land. You should all be ashamed for your indecency!” The clown makes his way to the back of the tent and another exit, and he begins to run. He keeps running and the breeze feels good against his naked body. He soon finds himself in a field of tall yellow grass and stops to catch his breath. That’s when he sees the ship descend and the angelic beings come and surround him. They are gentle and kind. They assure him no harm will come to him. Then they lift him up. Up into the ship. He washes away his makeup and removes the clown wig. He is allowed to remain naked, and he finally feels truly free. And that’s when all of life completely changes for him as he is taken to another planet to live out all his final days in comfort and peace and void of all chaos and hate and greed.
I had deviled the salads for far too long when the clock struck negative one. A perplexing complex of half octave nog ran amuck in the rosary room where the group had gathered to monotonously pray to a virgin. The egg sandwich shop across the street was blazing orange, and the sign outside depicted a large egg sandwich being held by a cloppity balding man with a big smile on his face.
It was ass class of the fiercest kind and with the help of devil’s lettuce in a wizard-shaped bong, my mind went taffy nuts, and I was exiled to the stratosphere of love and lust. I ended up at the record store on the tumble-weeded east side of town, and I was mindlessly flipping through the albums while Audioslave blared overhead. The place smelled of pot and glass and warm skin. The clerkies all had dyed hair and tattoos and face piercings. To each his own. Live your life. Let people be who they want to be without standing on their necks or defiling their liberties. That’s true freedom… to live as one truly is. Fuck the battle cry of hypocrisy. Fuck the battle cry of those who want to force their beliefs and so-called values on others. Mind your own fucking business.
After the record store I went to the deserted mall called The Citadel. There’s a chain-link fence all around it, but there are ways to get in.
And now I sit with the mannequins in the subversive shadows of an abandoned JC Penney store. The spinning dials that were their eyes brought me to the ashen dais to trumpet brokenheartedly that the chrysanthemums are falling from the sky, entangled in iron works, and pressed against the youthful angst of chalk hearts on brickyard walls. Now they melt in the summer sun, the colors drip like the blood of love.
They say nothing. The hollow air sits silently. The mannequins are motionless, emotionless… On the outside. But on the inside they feel everything we do. We the people. Struggling to survive in this sick, divisive world. At night they wander the ancient corridors of the once thriving mall. Their eyes ignite to light the way through the dust and debris and emptiness. This once buzzing temple of products, this grand basilica of consumerism is now gutted and void and those that once devoured the useless are ghosts.
I follow behind the well-oiled mannequins but am reluctant to be part of the group. They’re so odd and seemingly fictitious. The way they move though, it seems as if they are searching for something. Like midnight champagne goblins they are, sparkling green and full of tricks. But what would an obsolete, naked, plastic-skinned small herd of mannequins be searching for in a defunct shopping mall? Their clothes? Their souls? My body?
I fall asleep in the gathering rotunda of planters and benches tattooed with the memory of endless asses. The silent, motionless escalators lurch upward. A few hours later the sun cracks through the skylights. Now the mannequins have scattered to return to their places where they pose. I rise like the dead and my bones creak. All is quiet and still. Only the dust dances in the dawn, stirred up from last night’s activity and now slow to settle.
I stand and wonder if I had died and this is my afterlife. I turn west and walk toward the food court. It’s a dead hive of geometric cut-outs where they used to serve food from. Somehow the smell lingers. All those entwined scents of different kinds of cooking by captured hands. I glance upward to where the video store used to be across the way. I recall falling down in there or was it but a neon dream. Walls of film. Loud sounds.
The loneliness begins to take hold. Hollow howls spin like turbines through the air. Is something coming to get me at last? Am I ready to die again? No. I don’t ever want to die again. I want to go on and live in the ancient mall and go outside once in a while to look at the titanium sky and there I will wonder where it all went… My time, my life, my love.
Breck Cavalier sat in a chair across from his psychiatrist and began to tell him about the woman.
“As you know, Dr. Newhart, I live near a nuclear power plant.”
“Yes, Yes. We’ve established that. Go on.”
“I’ve always feared that the power plant was somehow affecting my brain and thus my mental state and thus creating all these personal problems I have.”
“And we have concluded that just isn’t the case, right?”
“Yes. But now something strange is happening and I’m not so sure how to deal with it.”
“And what is that?”
“A woman has moved in right across the street from me and she has this daily ritual of sitting out on her front lawn topless.”
Dr Newhart chuckled. “Doesn’t seem like a problem to me.”
“Even if it’s raining, she sits there on the grass and just stares at the cooling towers with her boobs exposed.”
“Do you watch her?”
Breck hesitated. Smiled effortlessly. “Yes. I can’t help it. She puts her boobs out there for the whole world to see. I’m just an innocent bystander.”
“Are you?”
“I mean… Am I being a pervert for peeking through the curtains at her?”
“Well, I believe most people would glance and then move on. You however seem to be obsessed.”
“I wouldn’t say I’m obsessed. I just wonder why she does it.”
“Why don’t you ask her.”
Breck Cavalier stood outside her front door. He was shaking with nerves as he reached out to press the doorbell button. Within a few moments, the door opened, and the woman was standing there smiling. She was topless.
Breck’s eyes immediately dropped. He couldn’t help looking.
“Hello,” she said. “My eyes are up here.”
“Right. Yes,” Breck stammered as his eyes moved to her face. “I’m your neighbor from across the street.” He held out a square glass pan. “I made you some brownies to welcome you to the neighborhood. I’m Breck Cavalier.”
“I’m Mindy Catterall. Please, come inside.”
The house smelled of bananas and shampoo. She led him back to the kitchen and showed him where he could put the pan of brownies down. “Thank you very much,” she said. “I love brownies.” She moved closer to him and gave him a big, friendly hug. “That was very nice of you.”
Breck felt her boobs crush against his own chest as she embraced him. “You’re welcome,” he said as she slowly backed away from him. “I hope you like them.”
She noted his nervousness. “I’m sorry if that made you uncomfortable. I’m just a very physical person.”
“No. Not at all. I enjoyed it.”
She looked at him funny. “You’re probably wondering why I’m topless, aren’t you.”
Breck fidgeted. “I have noticed you on your front lawn. Not that it’s a problem or anything.”
“Most people are put off by public nudity, and I just don’t get it. I mean, it’s the human body, right? We all have one. Why’s everyone got their panties in an uproar? It’s my body and I’m proud of it and I’m going to show it off wherever and whenever I can.”
“I like them,” Breck blurted out. He was immediately embarrassed. “I mean, you should be proud of your body. But can I ask… Do you go out in public like that?”
Mindy scoffed. “I’d love to, but they got this indecency law. Can you imagine.” She thrust out her chest. “Calling these indecent. They outlaw my boobs but kids getting shot in school, that’s applauded. It’s a sick and twisted society.”
“Yes it is,” Breck agreed. “How can these people stand themselves?”
“Exactly.”
“It seems being a horrible, hateful, violent person is in style these days. And that makes me a sad panda,” Breck said.
“You’re a panda?”
“Sometimes I’d like to be.”
“I totally get it. How wonderful it would be to get away from all the nutjobs, and the chaos, and the madness.”
“You and I seem to be traveling along on the same train of thought,” Breck pointed out.
“Yes,” Mindy smiled. “Especially when so many others have absolutely lost their minds. It’s nice to have an ally.”
And it was at that moment that Breck himself seemed to have lost his mind when he undid his pants and pulled down his underwear. “Look. I’m going to walk around without any bottoms on.” He reached down, gathered up his clothes, and smiled at her. “This is very liberating,” he said. “It feels great.”
She reached out and cupped him between the legs with her hand. “The human body is an amazing piece of artwork,” she said as she looked him over. “The engineering and creativity is awe inspiring. The aliens definitely knew what they were doing when they created us.”
“Hold on a sec,” Breck began. “You’re into ancient astronaut theory?”
“Yes, I am. It’s really the only thing that makes sense.”
“I totally agree,” Breck said with an air of enthusiasm. “Damn. We’re just like two peas in a pod.”
“It really is amazing how much we think alike… And since we’re already half naked, do you want to go upstairs and have some fun?”
Breck looks out toward the audience and grins. “Boy, would I ever!”
There’s subtle laughter and then abundant applause as she takes his hand and they disappear from the stage.
I went outside the other night to capture a photo of a very big moon and subsequently discovered this bluish orb with a small, white figure inside. Trick of light? Perhaps. I like to think it’s evidence of another dimension that thrives all around us.
His apartment is high and made of glass. He looks over the pinpricks, the massive cluster of skyscrapers. All is quiet inside. All is chaos outside. Black smoke rises. Spots of flickering orange mark the fires. There are swarms of people crushing forth toward the barricades. The questionable neighborhoods are cut off from the rest of the city. The downtrodden are caught in a net, reeled in, and then locked in steel boxes.
He sighs deeply and has to turn away.
How am I supposed to live in a world like this? he thinks. And what’s the point? Where is the joy? Where is the love?
He goes to the couch and powers up his gaming system.
“At least I can escape to wondrous lands,” he thinks aloud. “And kill without rhetoric and repercussions.”
In another world, an open window teases a candle flame as a cavernous mist crawls along the surface of a small lake. The writer sits down at his desk and ponders the keys. A woman calls his name from the other side of the house. He slams his fist down on the desk in frustration. “I’m on vacation!” he yells.
The woman pokes her head into the room. “Why are you so pissed off?”
“Because I’m trying to concentrate on my work and you’re disrupting my creative flow.”
“Sorry,” she meekly replies. “I just wanted to know if you wanted a pot pie for lunch.”
“Fuck pot pies!”
“Okay, okay. Geez, calm down.”
The writer puts a hand to his forehead and pinches at the stress and tension. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. But you know I have mental problems.”
“And you should know you can’t use that as an excuse every time you cross this barbaric emotional line.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He waves her off. “A pot pie would be fine, by the way. As long as it has flaky crust and creamy gravy.”
She makes her way toward the door but turns around before going out. “It will be a plate of steamy goodness, I promise,” she tells him, her face full of joy and excitement.
The man in the high apartment is killing giant spiders with a mighty sword in the game Kingdoms of Amalur: Re-Reckoning. “I don’t have to think about the sad state of the world when I’m doing this,” he says aloud to the room. “I’m killing giant spiders in Webwood on the outskirts of a gloomy village. The air is thick and smells of forest. I’m all alone and I like being alone…”
The daylight begins to fade. The city outside methodically starts to sparkle with lights of white, red, and blue. The Amorikan failure, fractured and hobbled, limps on. No one knows what any new day will bring. The people are tired and dumbfounded. This wrecking ball of governance. The man hacks at another giant spider as the world hacks into his soul, draining life and rights, stealing heartbeats, suffocating joy. The night comes on and the large television screen glows. Animated blood splashes. Green poison puffs. At least the bodies with holes still exist. He can smell them. His cell phone rings a Gregorian chant. Who could it be? he wonders. “I have no friends. And I don’t really want any.”
“How’s the pot pie?” she asks with anticipatory glee.
He chews, swallows, drinks milk, and wipes at his mouth with a white paper napkin. “It’s full of steamy goodness,” he says. “You did something right for a change.”
She looks down at her hands and thinks about what she’d love to say to him. But she’s scared. Instead she quips, “I’m glad you’re satisfied.”
He smiles at her. “Speaking of satisfaction, why don’t you crawl under the table and satisfy me.”
“Now?”
“Yes. Why not? Haven’t you always wanted to do it under a table?”
“I’ve never really thought about…”
“Here’s your chance.”
“We could go to the bedroom. I’ll submit.”
“I want you to do it under the table. Stop trying to get out of it.” He slaps his hand down on the table and the dishes jump.
She reluctantly goes beneath the table, crawls between his legs, undoes his pants, and does what he wants her to do.
The man looks at the unrecognizable number glowing on his phone. He swipes red. I don’t want to talk to anyone I don’t know, he thinks. “Probably someone wanting to scam me,” he says. “All of life is a scam… Especially love and kindness.”
He starts to think about dinner. He pauses his game. The man recalls seeing a pot pie in the freezer. “I could use some steamy goodness right about now,” he says to himself. “Hell, the whole country could use some steamy goodness right about now.”
He goes to the kitchen and opens the freezer. There the pot pie sits in the cradle of the electric arctic tundra. He thinks about how his wife used to make him pot pies, especially the time she did unspeakable things to him under the table. That life is decimated now. Nothing can survive in this state of the world he bemoans inside his head.
He retrieves the pot pie, reads the instructions on the box and goes to turn on the oven. “If I was smart,” he began aloud. “I’d just stick my head in there and burn my face off.” He waits for the oven to reach temperature and then opens the pot pie package and puts the pot pie on a metal pan and puts it in the oven. He sets the timer for 51 minutes. “Because I’m just so odd and different.”
He stands still in the silence of his apartment. The only light is in the kitchen and coming from the television. He thinks his life is sad, but bearable. And at just that moment there was a knocking at his apartment door. He freezes for a moment and then goes to the peephole and looks out. It’s his x-wife. What is she doing here? he wonders. The knocking comes again. “Albert? she says on the other side of the door in her painfully recognizable voice. “I know you’re in there. You never go anywhere.”
He opens the door. “What do you want?”
“It’s Christmas. I don’t think we should both be alone.” She holds out a wrapped gift. “Here. I got you a little something.”
“Oh, but I didn’t…”
“Of course you didn’t. It’s okay, Albert. It’s all about giving and not receiving, right?”
She sheds her coat and throws it over the back of the couch. She looks around and is saddened by the fact there is no Christmas tree. “Playing video games?”
“Yes. And I’m cooking a pot pie.”
Her face brightens. “A pot pie? Yummy.”
“We could share it if you like.”
“Well, Albert. How romantic.”
She leans in and kisses the corner of his mouth. She places a hand between his leg. “Do you want me to take care of your yule log?”
“Kathy… Please. Is that the only reason you’re here. For intercourse?”
She sighs. “No. I just didn’t want to be alone on Christmas. Can I stay the night? I’ll sleep on the couch.”
Albert looks her over. She still has the hot body, the cute face. She’s always been cute. “Yes, you can stay. But we can share my bed. It’s a king. Plenty of room to spread out. We could pretend we’re camping like we used to.”
Kathy smiles and goes to hug him. “Yes, I would love that.” They unexpectedly kiss.
He backs away. “Let’s not get too physical,” he says to her. “We aren’t ever getting back together. How could we?”
“I never said that was what I want. And for your information I don’t want to get back together, but it doesn’t mean we can’t be civilized toward each other.”
“Okay,” Albert says. “I can deal with that.”
The pot pie sits between them, and they take turns dipping forks into the creamy, steamy goodness.
“This is delicious,” Kathy says. “I just love a good pot pie.”
Albert watches her mouth as she eats. “Yes. I agree. Sometimes all one needs to make things better is a good pot pie.”
“Do you miss me?” she suddenly asks.
“Sometimes.”
“Not all the time?”
“I have a life of my own now,” Albert tells her. “I don’t always have time for memories.”
“Is that all I am, just a memory?”
“What else do you expect?”
“Everlasting love. Like we vowed.”
“What!? You’re the one who couldn’t wait to get rid of me. You took my things off the walls, brought home boxes for me to pack my stuff in, and even made me sleep in the guest room. Fuck off, Kathy.”
Albert slapped the pot pie off the table, and the steamy goodness went everywhere. “Now look what you made me do. A perfectly good pot pie is ruined.”
“You did it,” Kathy snaps. “You never could control your emotions.”
“Why don’t you get down on the floor and lick that mess up like the dog you are!”
“Albert! Don’t you dare talk to me that way. To hell with all this. I should have known better than to come over here for some Christmas cheer. You always ruin everything. You’re a horrible person, Albert. I’m leaving.”
“Good! Don’t let the door hit you where the good lord split you.”
And then there was silence and a mess on the floor. Albert went to the big windows and looked out at the city on fire with Christmas angst. The lights were all there, but Santa Claus was dead. Homeless toys wandered the streets and tried to sleep on spiked benches. The giving love seems to have evaporated. Tonight, there will be no apologies, no forgiveness. Humans have turned to stone.
Albert went back to the couch and fired up his video game once more. He launched himself into a better, older world where he could fight and live and wander, and remained there deep into the night and into forever.
CEREAL AFTER SEX 