Glass Gods You are in love with your hallucinations granted by glass syringes of moonlit sea foam of childhood memories naked and frenzied that touch your skin stink up the place and your voice shrills in your head as scenes from old home movies surface in chaotic rhythms and these lilac walls smell like mildew and last year's newspapers breathing obituaries here on Bacchus's trail we use ambulances as hayrides. Tori L. Wilfred Back to the Astrophysicist's Tango Partner Speaks