When I was sent up on an escalator made of neon lights I was rapidly unaware of the plunge. Cut from the bottom of this cup that, sometimes, when filled to the brim, resembles Christmas in Tokyo. If ever I looked up for plasma Christ and only felt envy I will go on to comb the earth for all the unspun sugar that has settled down here with me. Explosive notions teetering on the precipice of my palate over the edge of the antarctic, the south pole. Like a trampoline built over hypothermia and bad vibes or playing chutes and ladders alone with limited intermissions for drugs and the dead.