Musette DuBois, was stoned, rising from the bastion of her mahogany bed at twilight's moon—she worked the night shift on cannery row—it was the weekend, and she was free to wander the streets of Baton Rouge—the Rangoon bubbled, with...

You ever think about how many bodies this ol' river's swallowed? Mistaking the moonlight for two frozen plums, now just bones, knitting the banks like stubborn roots, tucking them under, with the current's tongue, licking its teeth. Some slip...

"Tell me something impossible," she said, peeling back his wrapper of memories like layers of sun-warmed orange rind. The man beside her exhaled through his nose—half-laugh, half-sigh—while his fingers traced the rim of a glass that hadn't held promises...

We the masters of manufactured greed,and curators of the void.A car, a house, some nicotine weed,breathtaking, non filtered.Sipping coffee at four dollars a cup,when it's 98% water.Thinking Shakespeare is a reality show,still not knowing, diddly squat.