No, I don't usually appreciate being awakened by a shower of cold grits... but I was having that dream again. Yes, the one where you're a toreador in Barcelona.
As that baggy-pantsed picador pinks you with his tiny spear, the blood springs out on me.
Blood streaming from my nostrils, I fart one last shuddering gasp of methane.
The roses fall at your feet.
You take my quivering heart and feed it to your hero, the clown.
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