Good morning, Doll.

Last night, I dreamed you and I went mad. We shot up an orange form of methamphetamine. Like no drug I've encountered previous, nor believe to be in existence, at this time, it was an unhealthy looking, pliable substance, with emotions. We convened in a hole in the ground, of sorts. You wore a white, silk slip, and with all your limbs spread, into the earth, around us, you informed me of the purpose of our preparing to shoot up, in that particular location.

"This is where the angels would do it," you exclaimed, in ecstasy.

I tied you off, knowing myself to be already spun out, by the amount of sweat collecting above my lip. You convulsed, as the stuff hit your vein. We then set every gear of the old laboratory in arbitrary motion. You rode a giant brass machine, like a bull, and I howled, into coffee canisters and handed them up to you. Sparks flew, lighting your maniacal face, and mine, as we wended our parts together.

This morning, I woke feeling as though I have been beaten by rough seas. I believe we’re onto something, Eve. A super angel, one apt in all the right areas. Yes, I think that’d be a lovely goal to work toward. I’d like to test an hypothesis, this afternoon, if you’re available. Or, perhaps several, should be come upon that, delicious, wake-up juice. It was, nearly, the color or orange juice, anyhow. I believe that’s what I’ll call it.