The neural blacksmith hammers home another lesson to be forgotten in the grave. Glass house gurus skip stones past pools below the falls to nowhere. Just another jackass jubilee.

Would you collect your bonus, knowing that someone will suffer? Is Themis just another whore who doesn't matter, or does what we do matter to all of us?

I don't think like most of us do. A childhood on the streets coupled with the abuse that usually accompanies such things left me mentally deformed, deranged and somewhat disgusted. But it's my belief that those who never know suffering don't know compassion as well as they might. Sorrow's forge is fueled by death and desire, like doe-eyed damnation in the flames of a feral fire. The Magnificent One, Ms. MedBud Mama, knows that all is impermanent - a dream that passes to neural ashes.

We watched that Portland bridge rise while I was twelve. Why he fell in love with an orphaned child was something that resided in his head. It fucked him up because he jumped off the same bridge four years later. He wasn't a bad soul, just fucked up, like many of us. They say it runs in cycles, but it's precisely because I knew it that I've never done it.

So you pour some gasoline (drugs) on those neural flames (thoughts you can't handle), then race for a grave. He hated his mother. I don't know what the woman did to him, but it couldn't have been easy. Just another dead rabbit dawn in eternity. Like pure motives in prayers and ulterior motives in hell. Then there was her. She fancied herself a disco queen. "I was fourteen and she was twenty-four. You tell me who was fucking who."

And people still laugh. But the reality was very different from an adolescent's wet dreams answered. Like the man asking if he could kiss me, fucking her confused me too. Rascal Rabbit was painting a corpse floating in the pool alongside the glass house, while Necromancer's needs went unmet. "In your head..."

So you knock at the door, hoping to go home, but the funeral director tell s you it's not time yet. So you crawl into the back of the hearse, pulling a shroud over your head that you know can't shelter you from the storm that is humanity. And the dead rabbits dance at dawn on brown graveyard lawns where demons yawn. The lemur whispers a lullaby into stillborn ears, wishing Baby the best.