The sun was still sleeping when I was not. It’s a terrible, swampy thing to be woken by alarm. My mind is that of a Fargo Sierra coming out of the ruinous blizzard on the back of a car trailer. Ghosts sway in and out. Don’t stick your neck out for anyone, she resolved. And then was to be heard no more. It is interesting to me, said the Flamingo, that if I were to use that phrase of yours, “you don’t have a leg to stand on”, well, if that were indeed the case, then this silly neck of mine would not be on any chopping block but would simply over-balance me and I’d drown in this dirty soup while the fluffy duck bums paddled by. There are worse ends to suffer, no? I mean think of those fluffy little bums—adorable! But, look, I said, I do have these legs upon which to stand. Two fine, long bird sticks at that! And they’re all I need, enough for me to walk out of this calamity or the next. And with that the Flamingo rode out of the scene and a certain pinkness ensued. I looked to my feet and saw toenails in need of Death’s scythe. A raggedy pair of boxer shorts crumpled on the floor. I lingered a while to allow time for all systems to come online. While doing so I notice Madame de Saint-Ange and Dolmancé are deflowering a young girl on a couch on my left shoulder, teaching her the ways of the major works. Not those of Wittgenstein. On my right shoulder sits a young William Law, rabbiting on about charity and the spirit of love in a tongue Huxley was honoured enough to kneel before. De Sade pops around the back of my neck and offers him a cigarette. The bloody snooze alarm goes off. Something, very unfortunately, says…

Begin now.