The cornfield waves and shimmers before us. I have you on my shoulders and we’re having our Woodstock moment, wooping and crying, high and mighty. The angel dust kicked in over an hour ago and my skin still feels electric, sweat turning to pebbles and rolling off my cheeks and arms.
Faced with a blazing autumn sun, we curse all the gods we can remember; we fuck the Christian god, the Greek gods, the Roman gods, the names and faces of our so called creators we motherfuck out of existence. Only the sun matters now; the heat and the light burning our eyes clear of the filth we see every day in town, before we fill our veins and noses with the truth. Out here in this field we are the only junkies; never kicking down but only kicking up, only fighting the glass ceiling, only trying to win… looking…
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