Trouble – the capital T kind – loomed large, hinting at impending drama, outrage or madness. The mind’s eye was clouded by sun-kissed, all-too-revealed skin and one too many cold ciders on ice. Or was it vodka sodas? The impossible became possible, but wouldn’t flirt with being plausible. The night the music died came in like a lamb, bloodied up and quickly eaten by lovers in lions clothing. The collapse of sanity and vanity made me look in the mirror and see a manatee, or maybe a manakin. Was I a tiny bird or a Mannequin? It didn’t matter then, and doesnt matter now. All I wanted was to increase the speed of my fingers, and decrease the speed of these thoughts banging on the inside of my skull. Thoughts punched the inside of the whiteness – take that white privilege – and looked for orifices to push their way out of, no lube required. The madness poured – or seethed – out of my hardware (read:brain) and software (read:mind) through some imaginary spaces between my eyes and this screen. I was a sinking ship and then I found the cure – although I’m not sure if it’s an anchor to capsize me or a liferaft so I can rebuild on that tiny little island. Rebirth, the pheonix, or infitine sadness, the bluebird. -two destines in one man.