Curiosity killed the cat but I brought her back. Isn't that what they all say? They say its madness, too, that it eats you up inside and spits you back out, but I don't believe them. I only believe the salt and the earth running through my hands, the way it turns into mud when the rain falls or one of the old boys spits. They all have terrible aim. Often their spit is black, like pitch or tar, and when it falls it there's a little plop sound. Plop, plop, plop, it falls on the ground and gets churned up in the dust and makes mud. Disgusting. I wish I had a shovel, so's I could turn up that mud and see what lies beneath. There are roots in the ground like we have roots in the trees, bugs and rocks and more dirt to remind us of what we're made of. We were all dirt once, and we'll be dirt again, just as soon as they get done burnin what's left of our bodies.  Mud to mud, dirt to dirt. I'm tired, I'm so tired and this load is so ****** heavy, but I can't let go. And who are you to say I should? You didn't even see that rock there, yeah, that one you're tripping on. You can't carry ****. You got no idea what it's like to carry a load like this. Keep walking, keep walking, back on the road, eyes down. He's nothing. He don't know nothing. I wish I had some water in me to spit. It's gonna be mud. We're all gonna end up mud.