I sold my lymph nodes to Age, who intends to smoke my immune system on the grill and give it a cajun rub. Disease is a dark room developer, and his images are always of Death pushing a lawn mower across the back plains of my iridescent mind. Age is an old friend (literally). He is not as wise as you would think. Folly has a shocking shelf life. But I smell my life float away on the Kansas wind, whistling as it does toward the hostile Rockies.
