Beer cans as gods. Empty beer cans as dead gods. Beer shits as the gift that just keeps on giving. In the throes of fucking you resemble the violent birth of the universe, and then when your belly’s full of seed, you resemble its slow and inevitable death. You just fade away into outer space until the stars burn out and the black holes evaporate until all that’s left of their rage is dust. When you shut your eyes and you’re drifting off to sleep, do you dream of others or is the outside world of no interest to you? When you’re sticky with desire, is there no other feeling that comes close, or is it just something that helps you leave the day behind in search of another? Those beer gods do the job for me. But each of us roll in different ways. We each have our ghosts. We each have our regrets. Sometimes we smile, and sometimes we bite our lips trying so hard not to let it get the better of us. There are doors. Most of them will never open, and most of us will never seek them. When we gasp mid-flight, we might reach out and touch them but seldom do we go any further. When we drink ourselves halfway to oblivion, we see the light shining from beyond them, but by the time we know what’s going on, the moment’s gone and we’re waving hello to yet another hangover and goodbye to the answers that have the potential to set us free. Those spent cans of beer, they sit around just like us. They do little other than exist, and while we may claim that love sets us apart from such meaningless junk, the love we cling to is so often just an empty act. It’s a mask we wear to shield us from the shame of being alone. It’s a safety net to stop us from falling because once we fall who knows if we’ll ever get up again. And god forbid that were ever to happen, right? God forbid we were to break down only to put ourselves together again the right way. The way that fits our visions and not the way others think is best. So here’s to beer shits and doors of perception and all those gods of pretty much anything you could think of that now find themselves exiled, dead, or inside the hearts of damned lovers doing their damnedest to make this thing work.