_In a barn marshmallow-stuffed with hay and sleep, beside a wet-gray hiss of road somewhere, somewhere it’s not too late to know, just to feel how to sit back, smoke, bullshit, enjoy things with your buddy. It is pitch dark in the barn._ HIM: Dude, where are you? ME: I—I don’t know exactly. HIM: I can almost—oh. There you are. ME: Yes, I feel you now. HIM: Do you mind if I feel you a little more? ME: No. It’s actually—kind of nice. _Knotted and warped, forgotten and relaxed, ancient, withered, and full of spitting, foaming, spuming spirit; youth is green moss racing from tree to tree to tree_