With a wave of my pen I morph cobras into locusts as the myriad creatures shift out of focus. I surf a million empty channels on the wings of a prayer before I get fed up and vaporize into molecules of air. Then I suffer through the turbulence of empty-headed, vacant eyes and twist among the falling leaves to the palace of the sky. But who am I? I'm the archer tripping ******* the flaming arrows of Apollo. I'm the soldier who finds no joy in the enemies I've slaughtered. I'm the passion for the precipice and the thrill of falling of this. I'm half of a tenth of a femtosecond from leaping off these rafters with no real concern for what may happen to me after. I'm waking up at 2 a.m. from fevered dreams of mushroom stems as the room shifts black and blue and everything's illumined with the wisdom of the moon. I would rather be a de-fanged monster rolling in a ditch, fantasizing about facets on the gem of Might-Have-Been, starving for nutrition and the comforts of a friend, dying from this fatal case of gut rot than parade around with people pretending to be something that I'm not.