I returned to the fissured path, struck with immediate inspiration, loose on companions and instructions; developing mind points the way to the middle. Coughing shoestrings, holding my breath so my teeth won’t fall, fingers resting on mescaline, balls released and floating lightly on oil. Everything forms a straight line and when I walk, they curve, when I cry; hexagons consolidate. Sounds in the distance, coming nearer in the interior; too far running in the exterior.
Seventy-cents-on-the-dollar and a dolla’ costs nothing and the nothing I praise is all I have.
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