We seize the hair by the roots and wrench it for the sacrifice, then meet the glare of the group and dare them to tell us otherwise. Never was there such truth staring face to face with so many eyes. We breathe the air of the tomb. Can you find the stoned guy?
Was it me, or was that just your muse descending from the flaming sky, in the atmosphere burned and consumed, a mere handful of dust when it arrived? Still you think that you can improve on the body of work that was left behind. You already know that he found you, but can you find the stoned guy?
So you think you’ve got something new that will make your name eternalized. What were you planning to contribute that hasn’t been contributed a million times? Oh, how painful and oh, how soon you’ll realize how hopeless is the enterprise. There’s only one thing left for you to do. Come and find the stoned guy.