Nude bodies foaming at the mouth as bombs drop at our feet creating patterns in the rubble that resemble flowering na-na’s. Shiny teeth ready to sink in as we move through the streets and subways in search of what makes us tick. Is it the written word, or the electricity that surges through our veins as we rise from another funk that seemed to last for centuries? Your twenties dissolve into your thirties and even after so long you’re still not sure what it is you’re looking for, not to mention whether or not you’ll ever end up finding it. One relationship after the other along with enough beer and wine to drown some long forgotten god who got lost in the outer regions of the galaxy while you fumbled your way through the years as if looking for your keys. This god- what was he a god of, exactly? And when his last breath escaped his nearly eternal lips, was there a maker out there ready for him to return to? Those lovers that dance in the clubs- those reptiles that shed their skin for another damned encounter that will bring with it nothing other than a shitload of opaque memories left to wither like your sister’s once bright eyes- will any of them ever be missed? As we cruise industrial estates looking for juicy young lambs, we link fingers and satisfy our hearts by pretending we’re not in love- that this means nothing at all. But although we change on the surface, deep down these fears will always remain. When the chemicals hit and the misery vanishes and our hairs stand on end, what will be left of us? What part of who we used to be will survive? Fingers that become claws. Kisses turning to bites. Throats not to caress but to tear out in a frenzy of nihilistic kicks. Swimming in moonlight as we shapeshift in the parking lot of a long since deserted warehouse, there are no witnesses. These acts of rebellion go unseen. But there are scars, oh yes; there are scars.