Nectar. Something of the gods. Lands of milk and honey, without roads or dust, only smoothness and gold. Light with clouds; white and blue, the color of nurseries. A paradise for the babies who don’t know any better, who don’t understand night or the people who love them or hands or toes or colors or mouths. They don’t know how sad you can get, driving in a car, anyone’s car, listening to a song and you get it, this world and everything in it. You will never see it all, never hear it all, nothing is good – not all the way through – and if it is, it doesn’t last, because once it’s good, it rots and falls away. Isn’t that terrible? To see it this way? I wish my insides could talk. Not just my silly brain, resting on its stem all the way up here like a king ignorant of his subjects. Stupid, selfish brain. Get it together, you slimy, wrinkled sponge, sopping up everything in your way, squeeze you out, but all the shit remains.