Object’s brain’s a black carafe with black liquid in the base of it where my bleaker self glimmers ‘n’ where we’re bottoming out, bae, my name a clutch of typos a flute of flat champagne a biz-class seat reclining so far I’m cancelled credit cut-up, dreaming so wet I’d make his black t-shirt blacker. Hey Fantasy City, hey Baby, Blue Eyes. Hey girl hey honey hey chupacabra caliente. Come on in, the water’s perfect. Don’t rock the yacht, I’m yelling. Don’t you know there’s literally nothing?
— Sneak peek of something new for Highway Mag.