Swine Flu's A Fine Brew.

Laden, lauded, loaded; for the first time in centuries, but there's no time left over to bite my mind's nails. Not that its a bad thing, but psychotically morose was my shtick and now what? Ambition? Gross. I just want to find a cabin in the chlorophyll-deficient Ozarks and fuck like monkeys and mix prescription drugs and alcohol and just remember myself. Ourself. Because I'm never as tired as when I'm waking up and there are so many places that I want to see because the black-top heat makes me thirsty. My careless, causal bird, you're complicated and violent and flammable. And I have endless concentration. And I will die if you go away. So, the days collide but we will make way for the simple hours when you lie supine and golden and wait for grace. Love to love you, Baby.