I, Burn (a presumption of innocence)

This is me after deregulation, before the rolling blackouts. This is the digital plow pulling my mechanized horse. This is my constant erection. Like yours, except when it isn't and where have you got yourself to now, my wayward artist? Because you aren't here. You're there: a voyeur watching a voyeur watching an exhibitionist in a hall of mirrors; a real house of fun. Into the depths of what for what? To make ze mortgage clear, Dear; to be responsible, to be good, to pretend that I am more than an able foil for my own blasphemous claim(s) to life, to make play that the zyklon b ain't better than the other piped-in things, like caviar dreams and federal nightmares, mascara tears and metholated air kisses, or the lonely rusted arm rocking chairs lingering on the broad, yellowed, broken, front porch teeth of turn-of-the-century farm houses, somewhere out west. But who am I trying to trick here? These are the best years, the folly of youth, the falling in love. And I was just absolutely positively fairly sure that sooner or later, you'd want my company.

You had better ask nicely.

Cue you: Ask what nicely?