I Heard He Smoked Joints Dipped In Embalming Fluid.

Follow the Bleeder. 

He has a wonderful sense of direction I'm told.

Shit's gotten all post-meridian and all is quiet on the Western Front. Yet, the aforementioned empty pouch of Medellin Magic won't go down without a fight. (See the previous post if you don't know what the fuck I'm on about).

Reaching into my pocket, mulling over plans to hitchhike to L.A., my fingers fondle what I, until recently, believed to be a guitar pick.  

But the heart has its reasons that reason knows nothing of. Just be glad that for once in your colorless (RGB) life, a contiguous and captivating narrative is thrown at your feet.

You're Welcome.

Next Episode: How best to dispose of the (appreciably vacant) bag and avoid further exacerbation of drug-related interpersonal and familial crises. 

Same Bat-time, same Bat-channel.

i fucken pwomiss. or they can throw me in gaol.