No Rules
It’s sometimes hard to remember that there are no rules. If I wanted to write about a chick (of the poultry variety) who staggered across a mescaline stash in the Sonoran Desert, pecked a prophetic mantis to death, then imbibed with locusts’ honey and sacred spring water (for €19.95) and saw the face of some wayward god gnawing on Shostakovich’s left ear while Anchises conducted Tilson Thomas’s orchestra of the moment to Balanchine choreography of Götterdämmerung in the key of B and Hart Crane proclaiming the end of times unincorporated by Superchunk, well: I can fucking do that.
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