I was telling stories. I was enjoying music. I was proselytizing. I was observing.

When he stands in the living room fully erect, wearing nothing but blue corduroy shorts cut off so high the pockets peek out, he holds a bicycle chain lock above his head victoriously, like a sword from stone; a makeshift weapon, we can see it’s stained with another man’s blood.

I was outside of time. Teensy amoebic televisions snowed in my eyes. My throat felt like burnt hair.

We drank the acid. I immediately felt fucked.

Hallucinated a flaming forest as if lucid dreaming around 9 p.m. Shit myself. Barfed orange slushy chunks.

A few minutes later I was presented with a tall, condensation-covered glass, containing an opaque, dark-green liquid that looked like it had been skimmed off the surface of a stagnant pond. I took a tentative sip.

I burst from every orifice but one.