I was born in an ash can; my mother was a raven, my father was a jar of black grease. I wandered the flat parts of the world. I drove my cart and plough over the bones of the dead. I kept my paintbrushes in a can of Savienne coffee, my pistol in the cavity of a dwarf. I fell in love with a train wreck, but married a smear of blood on an asylum wall. My briefcase contained nothing but sea-foam. Often you could see me at the office pretending to murder and create. Every morning I caught the 5:15 swan to Tartarus. I lived in a tower on an island in a swamp next to a bog surrounded by desert at the foot of the mountains hard upon the sea. Every evening at seven the balloons would come. My sickness came upon me in the form of chattering bees. The room clouded around me; there were children singing in the cupola. I looked at the snorting water. The colors of the sky: orange, blue, crimson, gamboge, magenta, armchair, papoose, and viola. Goodbye, my friends, I’ll remember you to the laws of physics.