I would sell death and exhume, and when I wanted I would fuck, and I would fuck and I would kill, and fuck. I would lie awake and raise the dead, I would cast spells into the night because that's how being a warlord works exactly. I would sell plague and accrue wealth because I would never feel guilty about the terribleness of my wretched self-loathing. Terrible like brittle bones in the Mojave. Terrible like the teeth in that obese woman I saw in Needles Arizona, buying cans and cans of monster energy to feed her savage lashing tongue, her twitching fingernails, and her unquenchable love for smoke and crystals. I would be terrible and I would never think of you. I didn't when I drove through assfuck Texico, New Mexico, where the boards over the windows of all the shops were as dilapidated as the people scurrying among them, too poor or stupid or high to have common sense enough to abandon. I didn't when I drove alone in the West Texas night, among the flickering lights of a thousand lifeless blinking windmills, red lights blinking, the turbines buzzing, the snot-bugs bursting and exploding against my windshield like so many lost snot spirits from those cemeteries long forgotten in the darkness. I didn't think of you when I walked among Katrina, and her legacy. The abandoned roller coasters were dead giants, the rusted handrails, the broken busted bumper cars were all welcoming as I lurked and didn't think of