Sitting in a damp refrigerator box, seriously wondering what sort of colossal hubris wcrystal lane swiftw is perpetrating upon the earth right now. "Don't you have better things to think about?" I long to ask. "Like whether Denny's would consider naming other sandwiches along the lines of 'Moons Over My Hammy', and what names they'd pick. Or pedophiliac fantasies. But I don't." Yet I examine my earwax. Stringing together present participles, gerunds, appostives, anything but the present indicative (unless in pidgen Spanish), my writing being in fact completely barren of fluid narrative drive. I watch a one-year- old kid waiting with his parents for a city bus, smiling, waving at my box, maybe. Or maybe just waving the way infants wave, at nothing. Maybe I could... but no. I am transported nowhere but CLS' haunting website photos. Sunshine jangles on his infantile nose, aptly described here as infantile, since he is in fact an infant - a fact which I believe I have already mentioned. Unclothed, we roll down a long interstate exit ramp fabricated by overpaid state workers. They tear it down every year and rebuild it, just to keep from being sent farther down the highway. They like this town. The asphalt simmers our infantile skins, smelling like burning tires. My skin, I mean, which is not technically infantile. He is really clever, while also being intelligent. He tells a dirty joke, which I don't usually like. But this one is really funny and about Jesus. His beauty, furthermore, strikes me as strikingly beautiful. Touching him, even in a 'fatherly' way, would create a state of arousal like I have not been achieve with women. Fire = pleasure. Scars = pleasure. Rose thorns = pleasure. Why then, can't risk of incarceration in almost any of the 50 states while indulging a twisted masochistic pedophile fantasy = pleasure? Answer me that, Ms Swift! In my dream, Mr Infant (for so I choose to call him) discusses matters of great importance while I listen raptly: (1) terrorism and 9/11 (2) the pros and cons of Bush's tax cut plan [we're both pro.] (3) how moved we were by The Passion of the Christ, which we have both seen exactly the same number of times [23!] (4) how sex is bad (5) how we each know exactly the same number of gay people [one]. (6) going to Wal-Mart at midnight in flannel sleep-trousers, which we both do (7) and his own beauty and skill at sword-fighting, which is really something to behold. Wet-dreaming loudly in my cardboard box, completely inhibited and self- loathing, feeling my biological clock ticking like a train bomb, showing no intention of ending this string of adverbial clauses with a main or independent clause. Wreathed... Ephemeral...... Adornment......... After a moment... I feel warm like something warming that warms me with its warmth. Cliche and cliche. Smoke calligraphies my eyes as my box-mate lights a pipe in this wet blanket of a damp cardboard box. I take that first strong hit and it brings tears to my eyes like the stinging tears of pleasure or something such, for (clearly) I've already lost interest in this entire project and am ready to hit Submit and sink back into a crack-induced doze and my own stupid unorthodox Baptist-Student-Union (mis)conception of morality, leaving damnation and utter poetic suckification for the experts.