Wallace found himself sleeping 18-24 hours a day. He reduced his dose. He read a blog about an online fanatic that went to the “psych ward.” He realized what a double entendre conjuring “stones” had become. He stopped drinking water. He started drifting off less often. He was more awake, but it didn’t matter. One message he expected never came. Instead, he was dark and sooty, in a white shirt no less. He wished he could grow kumquats, and balls. He was ephemeral and contrived. Listless. Quick, but not clever. His recent love affairs were with sharpies and estrogen-genetics. Consumed with cartoons. Cautious with fate.
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