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the story of the bent quarter
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fish face foot Where shall I begin with all this? Oh yeah I already did. All right then so in remembering Michael that spring and his disintegrated little clan of delinquent kids, how he loved collecting them coins like a loony-binned pirate, and attached incredible sentimental value to each of these shiny silver modern commodities jingling about in those iconic ripped pockets, dressed in the height of fashion with his fancy flared cutoff slacks all but gone to shreds. Identity is literally the only reason we’re here. What’s the deal with all these psychonauts trying to constantly conquer it? Although I suppose spirits are still able to entertain levels of identification as well… and ain’t that the mad fractal of diving deep, or hey for the sake of the pun, flying high (much like a salvia trip)?
