Hanging upside down to stretch out my overworked neck and back reminded me suddenly, forcefully, and viscerally that I’d had a dirty dream about Kevin Hart and Shaq last night.

It’s faelike. Trickery and youth and playful mischief abound. Children in lines dancing and spritely, waiting to beg for candy. Black falls orange and glowing, and the night is pregnant with possibility. I feel lost, wandering but happy. There’s pleasure for me in not knowing what’s coming, but certain something is on its way. Insignificance,…

I’m a fighter. I’ve got the long hair and the lore of the Youthful Woman, and the weapon belt of an assassin. Three swords I know nothing about, and a bow I keep trying on. They’re flimsy, until they’re not. I gotta be euphoric to use it, nirvanic. Only then, the big one’s got rubies,…