atie was like a rock. She was not extreme. She was not tired. She was not static. But she was like a rock. I can’t explain it. She can. When I say I’m like a rock, she says, I hope you know that I don’t mean that I’m inanimate. That’s not what I mean. What I mean is— fuck you scott you toilet paper brand name. some need for handwriting analysis here. i once saw scott in a disco gettin down. there was sweat on his brow and his breathing was erratic, but the white boy can dance. whew! to finish the bio is to die, no? so when the mind dies the only thing left is the body and so i’m using it to make people like me. hoping my mind is just in a regenerative phase. thinking that the early manipulation of mitochondria has something to do with the business of manipulation as we know it in the evolution of cells and beings in (i know this is too) general. walking upright is something to rejoice in everyday. and someone is burning incense i may vomit but if william had his way we’d all be in india with dung in our hands fertilizing the poppy plants and not even laughing about it because if we laughed it’d be twelve lashes with the bamboo rod. they’d learn to use their bodies as well as their minds. in the desert. in india. in a heated apartment with beer in the fridge. in kentucky with basketball fans and unwed mothers griping—all of them. a guy i met robbed a bank. they told the taxi to wait, got 13k and got back in. a limo would be more poetic. but this was real.