The cigarette stays a cigarette. I light it. I ask my brother to run that stuff by me again. I know they are flowers. I am conceived near Dallas in the dark while a child passes, a young girl who knows and doesn't know, who witnesses, in glimpses, the creation of the universe, who feels an odd hurt as her own mother, fat and empty, snores with her mouth open, her false teeth slipping down, snores and snores just two seats behind the Creators.
News can make a person stupid.
It can make you think you can do something. So I ask The Blade question, thinking that if he hasn't had the operation yet that I can fly to him, rent a cabin out on Puget Sound. That we can talk. That I can get him to touch base with reality. The orange, being a patient fruit, will wait for you much longer than say a banana or a peach.