Well, I’m here and it’s no Fyre Festival. So I’m staying. You can scream and shout about wild dogs roaming the all-night but here I am and here I will be, drinking my drink, ordering my drink, waiting for my drink. My man, my man in the bowtie (where’d mine go I’ll never know), I’ll tell you, though none are really exempt from military service, you swing it, and when it’s swinging this way maybe we can work something out; get you in the service of the recreation department. Hey, get Donn here a glass of water; looks thirsty doesn’t he, and because he’s been shelling, coring, smashing, splitting, shaking, serving us all hours of the night—that hypno-blue night that just stays and stays the same the same way all Summer in the Summer that stays the same Summer even as my brain corrodes in the sap and blindness sets in. I’ve never seen a suited man sweat and I don’t plan on seeing one tonight, especially not from a man with the sweet mint in his cap and his cane fingers holding the blueprint to night. So get him a glass of water; a teaspoon of sugar; a squeeze of lime. Been spent for fifteen months in the fruit spear orgy of garish garnish. Not sure when I got here though, or how long I’ve been waiting, moving.
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