to take most, but not all, things into account, I notice that there is magic crammed underneath my fingernails. I had been assuming that the growing blackness was simple dirt due to my return to certain former uses of my hands or perhaps some mysterious fungal infection.
We can never be sure, can we?
Hastily grooming myself between moments that require me to be presentable, I shortcut around washing and scrape away the nostalgic blackness with my teeth. The effects are immediate and of this sensual existence, incapacitating. Sparks fly from my mouth and I briefly see angels playing bocce ball and slapping each other playfully on the ass.
I must remember to save this stuff in little jars and sell it at concerts.
The best of love to you all, palsied wonderbearers.
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