I am loopy on meds

and cannot stop the phantasmagoria playing upon my eyelids. Myoki in meditation, Helga and her glacial skin. My old friend Cerberus weasel dying in my impractical car. My youth. Pouring wine down my throat at PetsMart with Reginald Hardcourt. The visions, the hangovers. The insane project of Gibbon Forest and the battle that ensued. My life is ridiculous and my heart is dead.

When I die, write this upon my stone, as it is my legacy and philosophy: Don't listen to the naysaying cocks. Lalalalalala. Tewksbury died an angsty teen.

Leave him here to rot.

Overcooked and wild, I am a daemon spawn born out of place. I am a raving lunatic. Fellows heed my bellows then pour another drink and pray to your new pagan gods. They are less than the old ones, but there's no controlling fashion.