Epiphanies are for drunks, and I am no more sober than any man who contemplates god.  The night is young, the time immemorial.  Is my name Peter, Jack or Gravy?  Jack seems about right.  I've been sucking life through his face, contemplating the nonsense of my contemplations.

 Who amongst us knows best?  The other night, I saw a star shooting across the sky and begged for it to put an end to my misery.  In truth, the stars are all crossed, and there are no lovers

 I recoil from myself, dear reader.  You redeem, though you may never know why or how.  Mothers, daughters, sons, brothers, what is this family tree?  Is this life rooted in drama, or just branches strewn about the ground, waiting to decompose, like the cells of my mind.

Life and death flow in a bottle that I consume unabashed.  You may judge me as you desire, but let me lay this story out straight and true for you, dear reader.