boy, you will think smoking makes a pearl in your gut.  there will be three doctors like writing shacks constructed from memory.  to each you will deny the existence of a one-way baseball.  prognosis is a curse.  when you are curled by infancy I will toss objects through a tire swing.  by the way I am your father no one likes.  pain is not the last room the world has.  to be fair, pain is the last room

with a toothbrush.  knowledge is a sick woman.  she takes out her breast in a snowstorm.