you forgot about how that thing, that bluish scarab thing, got into your blood & you forgot about the queen rising up from her pyre, her handmaidens scattering. you forgot about alot of things, there in your creche, there in your lurk, in your grotto. but what the hell, lets leave those things where we found them, shaped from ectoplasm into something tangible only to the somnambulent. viz. me. no i mean it, viz me. videlicet me. thats the winning drug for this gunslinger.
but there is this sticky sweet pulp. this sour blackberryish. & i can rattle on about the mirror-mirror stuff like a snake. like bats. like the beating of silent wings & echolocation.