STRANGE ASS CRAZY FUCKING CONNECTIVE KIND OF SHIT

You and I have paid the experts to cut us to pieces, then pull those pieces out our ears.
You and I between us have enough to piece together another one.

I have no idea who you are, what you want, or what you know and yet
here we are perched upon the pilings of an old port-town, watching the island

sputter and glow above us, listening to the fisherman mend their nets and leaky boats.
Because I don’t know how things were before, my liver is adapting slowly

to the idea of being without my insides. Under eucalyptus, underwater, under mud.
At the top of the canyon, soaked. I think you understand what I mean.

Randall is in a motorized bed and the hills have become boulders to dynamite
and remove. What it comes down to is neither of us need our insides anymore.