I woke up and fell down the stairs and broke my neck. Then some b^stard freelance surgeon with a portable butchery gig stole a number of my vertebrae and one of my shoes was elected god. As I lay there in a sort of helpless splay, bent as though crumbled by some hand divine and blinded by the ridiculous and unexpected spiritual ascension of one of my own damn shoes, I saw a small girl standing in dawn’s prospect like a salmon made of light climbing a dark and silvery waterfall of liquid singularity. Her eyes revoked my curses, one by one, and her silent lips spoke words no mortal soul shall ever hear and yet be unredeemed. That was when my shoe attacked her and purple lightnings started streaming out of my nether recesses and inscribing new bibles on the stones of the entryway, the mailboxes, even nearby cars. I never did find my vertebrae. F*cking freelance surgeons. My neck is now several experts on fishes no human being has ever encountered. Specifically, they focus on generating reproductive theories and I have a tiny vial from which I occasionally sip the milk of a rare Andalusian bat. This is how we splay round here.