Thousand: Two Hundred Sixty-Nine

desperado with a six-shooter and the sun in my eyes. How could I forget our first instant communication across planets when you were lonesome on Enceladus and I was lonesome on the floor of the disco, poppers up my nose, the high energy rhythm of the ages pulsing in my sinews. If not for you, my dove, I wouldn’t have written the mash note to the baroness at the opera. It was you who gave me that courage. And when she (he, rather) heard from my midnight lips that I could see his spiritual house was not in order, the