I sat in a room of eager doctoral students who nodded sagely even as the professor drew pentagrams on the board. Women with scratch ‘n’ sniff skin would enter my thoughts, but avoid leaving their names. The moon appeared from somewhere behind me like the holed white hull of a dream. There’s a suspicion that Marco Polo didn’t tell half of what he saw. Birds of certain countries could sing in three languages and lie and grieve in none.
An Anatony of Addiction