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Her lips are chapped and her nose is broken. Her eyes are crossed and her head is big. Her hair is red. Her clothes are not what I would wear if I was a girl and I could sing, if I was up, if I was there, if I had a fucked up face and fucked up hair. But now I know her voice. It can’t be seen, it’s the ghost of a grizzly bear. 18 feet of man-eating terror, it ate a human being. It floats across the room. Through the smoke and around the people. Underneath. Over the top. It can’t be stopped. It’s growling. It’s rumbling. It’s a stuntman tumbling down my ear canal. It’s in my brain. Cloudy and woolly. I’m the little boy who lives down the lane. It’s the sun and the sky and I’m some guy on the ground or in a field with nothing to do but bask. It’s a flask full of whiskey. I don’t drink but I’m at the liquor store and I want some more. I’ve got some cans to recycle. Awake but drunk I’m naked in bed and still it’s in my head. It’s the semen in my balls (I’m aiming for the walls) and I’ve never been this happy. Sleep has come and gone and come and gone and come and gone and now my eyes are open. Oh shit, she’s ugly.