Whenever I make the mistake of huffing the intoxicating inhalant marketed as Maximum Impact, I hallucinate I'm floating in mid air and I'm surrounded by chaos that is going faster at an ever increasing rate with no possibility of it stopping or even slowing down.
And with the unspoken certainty with which exposition is understood in dreams, I knew some kind of a self-destruct button that, for centuries, we'd known to leave alone had finally been triggered by some idiot.
And that's when my old comrade Jane (who once married a Turkish freedom fighter to prevent him being extradited for having assassinated a torturer, who used to march with the Anti Nazi League presenting herself as if she were shopping for groceries but...
...hurling enormous spuds in the faces of the National Front, who survived heroin addiction but succumbed to lymphatic cancer)...
Dear, dead, Jane appears to me and says, with a giggle, "It was only a matter of time before some idiot went and did it."
And then while I'm waiting for the chemical rush to clear, I'm wondering where I'll end up and I'm thinking, "I'm probably in the bunk room at Club San Diego."
I'm leaving that stuff alone in future.
I'm leaving that stuff alone in future.
