Saber-toothed kisses of peace are touted as I enter the cubicle city of my office building. Co-workers wave sweaty palms to communicate their ascetic politeness. Damned robots they are. They actually like the automat pink jello catered for us minimum wage beehive puppets. They appreciate every moment spent in this social prison, happy to be brown nosing the anal passage of the head manager. These proletariats snivel his toxic flatulence, inebriated by the possibility of a three dollar raise. My diacetylmorphine marinated body is thrown into a vinyl office chair. Tequila rolls in my desk drawer encased in a brown paper coat. 'Round noon-time I deserted the corporate stockade to smoke my zig-zag wrapped herbal green flora. Magic fungus clouds lace my bloody delta with elation, as I explore necromantic galaxies.