I’m on my hands and knees crawling around in the mud. Not sure why. Could be that I’m drunk as a skunk, or that I’ve overdosed on her fumes and am now somewhere in the midst of obsession and frenzy with no way of coming down. Is it the back garden or a field near where I grew up? Could it be that it’s a dream, and not a garden at all, but some strange hallucinogenic metaphor for her sex? The possibilities are endless, but for now, I’m sinking my fingers into the wet soil summoning some kind of energy or force that controls my every move. Bringing my fingers to my mouth, I taste the earth and in turn taste her. It makes me hard, so hard in fact, that I can’t help but unzip myself and masturbate as the unseen eyes of numerous animals watch my every move. When I close my own, it’s her that I’m thinking about. When my spine begins to tingle, it’s her image that rises before me like the spectre she is. With the little death knock knock knocking on my door, I spit and cuss and call her name and as the rain begins to fall and the wind blows leaves into my face, I growl and bark like the rabid dog I am. Down every street and pathway, the echoes of my climax bounce around and linger far longer than the pleasure that shoots through my wretched body. Gasping for air and hacking up phlegm, I get to my feet and stumble around until an unknown amount of time later the bright light of the fridge brings me back to reality. There’s beer which numbs the pain and day old take away chicken that settles my stomach. To make things even better, there’s a pouch of tobacco and rolling papers next to the fruit dish, and within seconds I’m sucking down the smoke while lying on my back looking up at the ceiling. The fan going around cools my fever while reminding me of the Palmer house from Twin Peaks. Perhaps I’m possessed by Killer Bob? It would explain a lot of things, but as I blow out mouthfuls of smoke while blinking my eyes, the nature of what I am feels less supernatural and more organic by far.