SEX...CIGARETTES...& SEWING MACHINES © MAY 2014

INGREDIENTZ.

FALL FROM GRACE------

INFATUATION NATION

“The monstrous display that played out on-screen was one that matched

the Fashion PR’s equivalent to adultery. Throughout the video, the most disastrous and brand disintegrating event took place; surely no one could repair their reputation

after a blow like this one.” after a blow like this one.” --[FALL FROM GRACE]

Fall From Gracewritten by

Sojourner Edmonson-Sealy

CHAPTER 1

GILESFebruary 1, 3135 -- 7:42 a.m.

Adorned in a fitted, navy pin-stripe Thom Browne suit, complementedwithbespokeCream-on-CreamNicholasKirkwoodOxfords,GilesOnyxDanielssatwithhisfeetproppedupandcrossedonhismassivedesk;madeentirelyofsculptedporcelainthatshimmeredlikecocaine.Withgreataidfromtheglassfloorthatcoveredeveryinchofhis50sq.footoffice,Gilescomfort-ablyrestedwithinvisionofthefloorbelowhimashelacedhisfingersbe-hindhishead.Thechaosunfoldingbeneathhimfromthemaindesigndepart-mentof“H.V.N.”--thecrèmedelacrèmeofAndrogynousLuxuryClothing--wasajungleofpressureduetotheupcomingSpring/Summer3135FashionPresentationduetotakeplacedigitally,throughtheirimpressivedigitalapplication;onethatautomaticallyprojectsalife-size,real-timefashionpresentationrightinfrontoftheviewer,nomatterwheretheyare.H.V.N.,beingthecreatorofthisnewformoftechnologyinthefashionindustry,meantthatGileswouldbeabletotakecompleteadvantageofthiscomplexprogram’sfullpotential. AstheChiefExecutiveOfficerofH.V.N.,Gileswasn’tthepictureofahumbleman,gratefulforhissuccess.Infact,GileswasamanthatbelievedhewastheSoulandtheHolyGhostofH.V.N.;theangelthatansweredtheprayersofhisconstituents,aswellasthewrathfuldictatorthatspeweddisciplinarycommandswhenchallengedbyanyone,inanylittleway. Exactlythreeminutesuntiltheofficialheadliningstorieswereplant-edandwateredthroughoutcyberspace,Gilesrealizedwhattimeitwas.Hebegantopacebackandforthontheglassfloorbeneathhim–strokinghisacutelyshaped-up,pitch-blackbeard–ashementallypreparedforthatday’spredeterminedevents.Giles’coffeecomplexionbecamefurrowedashisholographicsecretary,Mindy,spontaneouslymaterializedinfrontofhim,mid-stride. “Your first appointment of the day is here Mr. Daniels!!” Mindy,squeakedassheappearedinfrontofhimatafivefoot,seven-inchstature;seductivelydressedinavintageBalenciagashiftdress. “ThankYouMindy,sendthemin.”Gilessoftlyroared. Hethenwalkedbehindhisdesktotakeaseat;apracticehedidbe-foreanyofhisvisitor’senteredhisoffice,awaytoasserthispositionastheoneinpower.

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CalmlywalkingintohisofficewasCharlieBee,awomanknownforthedigitalcodingsymphonyherfingersperformedonadailybasis;shewasalsoblessedwithdigitaldesignskillsthataidedthecompanyincreatingasuperiormarketingaesthetic. Asherrunwaymodelstatureglidedintotheoffice,herCaramelskin-tonecontrastedwellwiththefullcream-coloredpantsuitthatlookedasifshewerepouredintoit;promptlycomplimentedbyherfavoritepairofGiuseppeZanotti’s—the6-inchsuedeMaryJanepumpswitharoyalbluecoatingandthinanklestraps.Thesleek1940swavethatsculptedherhoney-blondehaircomplimentedhersharpfuchsialip-color.AsshewalkedtowardsGiles’desk,herheelsclappedlikethunderbeforeamidnightrainastheyhitthefloor. “Giles,”Charliegreetedinaflattone,assheclenchedherjaw. “Charlie…sogladyoucouldmakeit!” “Well…Iwasn’treallygivenachoice,nowwasI?”Charliechallenged. “Oh…noneedfortheattitudelove,justtellmewhatIwanttohear.”Gilesretorted,slightlyagitatedbytheattitude. “EverythingisgoingasplannedandtheFashionIndustrywillbewit-nessingthedemiseofMr.Ernwell’sglisteningreputationinfiveseconds.So………isthatall?”Charlieexpressed,ratherexactly. “Absolutelynot.Howaboutyoupulluptheheadline…you’retheonlysoulIwanttosharethismomentwith.”Gilesspokeinaseductivetoneashenowstoodsixinchesawayfromherface,withaseductivegrincreepingalonghisface. Charliestaredbackincontempt;unfazedbytheflirtatiousnatureofGilesshepressedher“Mind-I”--thequarter-inch,metallicgoldhexagonimplantedbetweenherleftindexfingerandthumb.Oncepressed,apersonal-izedtouch-screenprojectionmaterializedinstantly.Mainlyclutteredwithscrollingheadlinesofthatday’spressingevents,tabloidnews,andsocialmedianon-sense,CharliepressedthelinktothevideothathadtakenherexactlyoneyeartoproduceforGiles. Themonstrousdisplaythatplayedouton-screenwasonethatmatchedtheFashionPR’sequivalenttoadultery.Throughoutthevideo,themostdisastrousandbranddisintegratingeventtookplace;surelynoonecouldrepairtheirreputationafterablowlikethisone. Whileentrancedintheprofanelyblasphemousdisplayonscreen,Mindyinterruptedtheblindgaze,andslighthorror,thatbothofthemgavetothevideo,asshematerializedinfrontofthe“Mind-I”projection--digitallydressedinanalluringvintageVersacebody-condresschange--adeliber-atefeatureinMindy’sprogramming,atGiles’request. “Giles!YourPressConferenceisinfiveminutes;youneedtogettoyour‘Cubix’immediately.”Mindyspeedilystated. “ThankYouMindy.”Gilesstatedmatter-of-factlyasMindydissolvedintodigitalparticles. “AndThankYouCharlie…foryourextendedloyalty.YoutrulyareanAngel.”Gilessaidwithsarcasmdrippingfromeveryword;awaytosquashCharlie’ssourattitudeandremindherofthefactthatthisfavorwasowedtohimanyway.

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TheFuchsiaNeonlight,projectedontotheglassfloorfromthe5-inchsteelcube,danglingfromtheceiling,alsofunctionedasadigitaltrans-portationdevice.AssoonasGilesstoodintheheavenlyglowofhis‘Cu-bix’,hisheartbegantopumpinacrescendoatunordinarylevelsashisblood,simultaneously,spedthroughhisveinsfasterthannormal;hewashighoffofthePowerheknewhewouldexperiencebytheendoftheconfer-ence.

LUCIFFebruary 1, 3135 -- 7:50 a.m.

TherawandruggedinterioroftheRenovatedGarmentFactory,turnedBachelorPad,onthe666thfloorofthenew“ChryslerV”Building,servedasthedomicileofH.V.N.’s,World-RenownCreativeDirector.SittingsmackdabinthemiddleofManhattan’sLowerEastSide,thisvenueoversawthequadruple-deckedtattooparlorsandsushibars,equippedwith50-foothighwindowpanels--lightlydustedinaRosetint.

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Coveredinablanketofaggressivelyartistictattoos,Lucif’sath-leticallymuscularbodywascoatedinmilkchocolateflesh;alsofunctioningasasculptedworkofartthatmanywomenhadbeenblessedwiththroughouttheyears. “UrgentMessageAwaitingYourActionMr.Ernwell!”Thedigitizedfe-malevoicerangfromLucif’s“Mind-I”ashelaysprawledoutonhisstom-ach;hisnakedbodylacedthroughoutthesilky,thermal-coatedsheetsthatcoveredhislevitating,king-sizemattress. “UrgentMessageAwaitingYourActionMr.Ernwell!”thevoiceresoundedfivesecondslater,causingLuciftorubhiseyesbeforefinallyopeningthem. Recoveringfromwhatseemedtobeanexcruciatinghangoverfromthenightbefore,Lucifpressedhis“Mind-I”ashestruggledtofocusontheprojectionthatdancedintheair,alertinghimoftheurgentmessage.Thefaceofhisdesignassistant,CharlieBee,appearedinapre-recordedpro-jectionobviouslytakenfromtheirdesignoffices,withthisseason’smood-boardservingasherbackground.Withnotonehairoutofplace,shegaveanunusuallytimidandinternallytornscriptedperformance--scheduledbyGiles. “Lucif…pleasetellmeitisn’treal…thatyoudidn’t…thatyoucouldn’t…itsalloverthenews…it’sonvideo…” Conflictedwithinher-selfforaidinginthetakedownofthemanthatshehadworkedsidebysidewith,andgrownextremelycloseto,duringthepastyear,Charliecontinuedthecharadeinordertosaveherownpersonalassets. “Idon’tevenknowwhoyouareanymore…there’snoundoingwhatyou’ve

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done…”Charliestatedashereyesbegantowaterbecauseofthewarherconsciencewashavingwithhersoul. “Idon’tknowwhereyouare,butyoumightaswellconsideryourrepu-tationfoiled…” Charliepausedforamoment,lookingasifthewordsshewassearchingforwerelyingscatteredontheground. “Whatwouldpossessyoutodosomethinglikethat?I…Iquit.”shefi-nallyutteredinadisappointedpout. As the projection of Charlie’s face dissolved into the air, Lucifstaredupathisdistantceilingwithafurrowedbrow,mixedwithanunset-tlingnauseousfeelingthatwouldn’tgoaway.Strugglingtorememberhislastactionsbeforehepassedoutinhisbed,Lucif’sheadpoundedwithquestionstryingtofigureoutwhatCharliewastalkingabout;whatcouldhehavedonetoangerhertothepointofresignation? Needingcredibleproofofwhatwasgoingon,Lucifdraggedhisnakedlimbstohisprojectednewsfeed;unfoldingacrosstheglassofhis50-foothighwindowsliningthefar-sideofhisbedroom.Ashereadtheheadlinesoftheday,hisbodywentnumbandaglassygazetookoverhisstare.Lucifthencautiouslypressedplaytoseewhatproofwasgivenofhisactions.Asthepicturesrapidlydancedonscreen,Lucifstaredinhorroratwhatwastakingplacebeforehiseyes.Ashewatched,Luciffranticallysearched,withinhismind,forthelastthingherememberedaboutlastnight.Atthispoint, Lucif’s reputation had disintegrated into ashes right before hiseyes. Fightingbackthetearsthatthreatenedtofallfromhiseyes,Lucifpressedthemini-hexagonimplantedbetweenthethumbandindexfingerofhislefthand. “CallGiles!”hecommandedtheprojectionfromhishand,whichalsofunctionedasacommunicationdevice. Receivingnoanswer,hecommandedtheprojectionagain--thistimeonlyreceivingGiles’videovoicemail,whichwasasignthatsomethingwasnotright.WiththisdrasticturnofeventsLuciftookhighcautionashethrewonalow-keyensembleinordertogetpastthespeculatorsandthechaoticpresshounds. AsLucifstuckonelegintohistrousers,aspecialStorypoppedupalloverthe‘GILDED’instantnewsfeed.AstheAmericanFashionIndustry’smosttradedpublication--whateverwasexposedandverifiedthrough‘GILD-ED,’biblicallyrangoutthroughtheindustryasthegospeltruth;control-lingthewaytheindustryfunctioned,aswellasitsopinionoftheotherplayerswithinit. Thenewscaption,reading“CEO SPEAKS AGAINST SADISTIC SCANDAL,” in-stantlygrabbedLucif’sundividedattention;however,whatactuallykepthisattentionwasthefamiliarfaceofthemanstandingatthepodiumabouttospeak.

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GILESFebruary 1, 3135 – 8:05 a.m.

The soundtrack, of chattering Fashion Industry Reporters and theclickingoftheirflashingcameras,setthetoneforaneventfulPressCon-ferenceoutsideoftheH.V.N.Headquarters.TakinghisstanceatthePressPodium,toaddressthedevastatingscandalattachedtoH.V.N.,Gileslight-lystrokedhisgoateeashebeganhis“IndustryAddress.” “GoodMorningLadiesandGentlemen!”Giles’voiceechoed,silencingthemindlesschatteramonghisaudience. “ThismorningIwillbetakingastrongstanceagainsttheaforemen-tionedvideoinquestion,thathastakenonavirallifeofitsownthrough-outcyberspace.PleaseletmeofficiallystatethatthisvideoisinNOWAYassociatedwiththebeliefsordealingsoftheH.V.N.Brand.” Animpassionedpauselacedtheair;asilentapprovalwasgivenfromthecrowd,asGilescontinued. “ThisviledisplaytrulyembodiesthelengthsatwhichMr.ErnwellhassuccessfullydisguisedhisseverelycarnalandhazardousSoul,withanAn-gelicCamouflage.So…inresponsetothisappallingandsadisticstunt,fromthismomenton,LucifErnwellisPERMANENTLYterminatedfromhispositionastheCreativeDirectorofH.V.N.!” Grinninginternally,Gilesgazedoverthecrowdofindustrypawns. “AnyQuestions?” Abarrageofhandsrosetotheheavensinarapturousfaction,asGilesthenpointedtowardsafraillookingreporter,whomappearedtobearookywithashydisposition.Apparentlynoonehadwarnedthepoorreporteroftheaggressivelychaoticnatureofthesetypesofconferences. “Yes!?”Gilescommanded. Thecrowdofreporterssurroundingtheyoungreporter,instantlysentdisgustedlooksofannoyanceandentitlementhiswayashespokeinana-sallydrone. “Uhhh...Atthispointinthescandalw..whatcanyousayaboutthe…theindefinitefutureuh……ofH.V.N.?”thereporterstumbled. “Fromthispointon--I,GilesOnyxDaniels,willbetakingfullcon-trolofallbusinessanddesignorientedcommitmentsinvolvingtheH.V.N.establishment!ThefutureofH.V.N.IS,INFACT,VERYDEFINITE!”Gilesde-claredasamatteroffact,withaslightchuckle;astomakeanexampleofthenaivereporter. HandsrejoicedintheaironcemoreasGilespointedinanexactingmannertowardsPennyInk--theleadreporterof‘GILDED’;awomanknownforbeingoneofthemostwell-readandcredibleFashionHistoriansintheentireindustry. “Howdoyoufeel,personally,aboutthevideo--beingthatyouandMr.ErnwellcreatedH.V.N.togetheraspartners?”Shestatedinaninquisitivetone. Takingadvantageofthequestion,Gilestookinapowerfulandcal-culatedbreath,andfurtherannihilatedLucif’sreputationthroughouttheindustry.

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“Thehedonisticactionsdisplayedinthatvideo,byMr.Ernwell,areIntolerably Destructive……Neurotically Perverse……and Disgustingly Barba-rous!AndThisConcludesThisConference…ThatWillBeAll!” Intentionallysilencinghisaudience,Gilesknewexactlywhichemo-tionalbuttonstopresswhenitcametoaddressingandpersuadingthepublictojointhechurchofH.V.N.--heknewhisfate,assole-controllingCEOofH.V.N.,hadbeenpermanentlysealedatthatmoment. FightingtheinternalKool-Aidsmile,nudgingtocomeout,Gileshadofficiallyconcludedtheconference.

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CHAPTER 2

GILESFebruary 1, 3134 – 7:45 a.m.

Smack dab in the middle of the X-Atlantic Ocean, where the aquatic tides struggle with each other for a place to lay, a deserted slab of land floats peacefully while encapsulated by a dome-shaped electric grid sur-rounding the solid glass infrastructure of Happy Valley Prison. The notori-ous Happy Valley, was the domicile to the world’s most dangerously intel-ligent criminals and crooked law enforcers. If a prisoner were to somehow escape this voltaic bubble of infamy, the miles of crashing waves would destroy them before they reached the freedom they craved.

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In the perfect cube of a room, Giles sat comfortably in his luscious, Royal Blue Velvet suit from the Fall/Winter 3134 H.V.N. collection, on the visitor’s side of the wall-to-wall, electrically charged laser columns; separating the room into exact halves. The transparent glass walls and iridescent, neon-lit floors, set the stage for the entrance of one of the world’s most intellectually cunning masters of the digital world. A lonely glass stool awaited its treacherous patron on the prisoner’s side of the isolated suite. As the entrance disintegrated into loose particles, a tall and pale, statuesque brunette glided in with an unusually confident and arrogant stride; wearing a matching set of a boxy short-sleeve top and crease tai-lored trousers; made out of charcoal gray, translucent vinyl, which aided in taking away another aspect of the prisoner’s privacy. Her wrists were clasped in front of her with glass handcuffs carrying an electric current surging throughout them that resembled the static of lightning that came from the sky. Giles was agape by her fluid confidence, in spite of being a caged mammal on an unknown island, floating in the middle of the ocean. As he sat in the illuminated interior of Happy Valley’s isolated visiting room, he hadn’t thought that this woman would still hold true to her reputation after 3 years of being locked in a jolted penitentiary, with no real possibility of escape. “Well…if it isn’t the infamous Jude Savage.” Giles impolitely greeted, with a slightly sarcastic smirk plastered on his perfectly shaven visage. Jude greeted Giles by rolling her naturally gray eyes in annoyance, figuring that Giles was just another powerless asshole whom wanted to use the same superior digital coding and hacking skills-- that landed her at Happy Valley -- to his advantage. Many had come trying to bribe her with unsatisfactory and miniscule lump sums of currency; as well as gilded lies of freeing her, which held no true consistency or strategy. Jude’s mindset existed on a higher plane than most; seeing money simply as a tool to get

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from point A to Point B in life. Her main concern was coveting her most prized possession; one that was hidden from the world and awaited her out-side of the electric bubble, which was now her main dwelling. As Jude sat on the glass stool across the electric barricade that sepa-rated her from Giles, she stared him down, slightly cocking her head to the side while sizing him up. She was impressed by the power that radiated from him, though her poker face told another story. Breaking the silence and the uncomfortable stare down, Giles inter-jected. “If I may introduce myself, I’m—“ “I know who your are..” Jude intervened, “You’re just another foolish lummox who wants to manipulate me for your next so-called power play, and in turn, offer me a pathetic lump sum that you think will appease me beyond belief. So, if you don’t mind I’d rather get back to my 50 year bid.” After Jude’s mini-soliloquy, Giles simply leaned back into his chair, while resting his right ankle on his left thigh and crossing his arms, while stroking his goatee in deep thought. Impressed by Jude’s hard and fearless exterior, Giles became slightly aroused. “Well, that’s unfortunate.” Giles retorted as he rose from his chair and buttoned his blazer. Taking a few steps towards the door, Giles paused and stared Jude straight in the eyes as she sat with her head leaning to the side, shrugging carelessly as she raised her left eyebrow; which complimented the snide grin that crawled along her face simultaneously. “Though I do think Lola would want you to hear what I have to say.” Giles so cleverly tossed onto the metaphorical table of negotiations. Jude’s face froze. To hear her most prized possession’s name spoken from the lips of a stranger stopped her blood flow. Jude’s five year-old daughter, Lola, was hidden from even the government who put Jude away. Lola was a child in a critical condition coma, being taken care of at the hidden Rogue Heart Care Unit; a black market medical clinic that closely copied the molecules of certain drugs that were too expensive for the extremely poverty-stricken. The cure needed to bring her out of her coma, was a rare drug that only the elite of society had access to; it was a drug that even the Rogue Heart Care Unit couldn’t get close to. Having come from the demolished and spoiled Compton-33 Projects of California — a wasteland of no discerning race, based in pure poverty – Jude used her hacking skills to provide a higher level of treatment for Lola than what was offered in her region. Jude’s Achilles heel had always been her daughter, which is why she had hidden her from the prying egos of her past adversaries. Lola was Jude’s hidden treasure; a piece of her life that was untouchable from the world. Trying not to show that Giles had pulled her card, was a futile at-tempt. “Have a seat…” Jude stated in defeat.

[TO BE CONTINUED...]

Infatuation Nationwritten by

Sojourner Edmonson-Sealy

BAMBI

Wearing your dirty pink, polka dotted pajama pants in coordination with your favorite screen-printed Carrie Blow T-shirt, you search for your favorite spot on the old, dingy white carpet covering the cluttered jungle of your Mommy’s trailer home living room. Your spot is the only place you feel like your dreams can come true; the perfect distance away from the dusty screened chunky TV your mommy found in the garbage a few weeks ago. It now sits on an 8-month old air conditioner cardboard box covered in your Crayola Marker drawings of the mansion you want when you get older; just to let the visitors know that your mansion will be nothing like the one your mommy has. Random odds and ends cover the makeshift coffee table -- a circular sheet of glass, sat atop a deteriorating milk crate stolen from your neigh-borhood Deli. Old magazines are randomly stacked throughout -- surrounding the lived-in couch with only three legs and a stack of magazines holding the place of the missing leg. The paint on your T-shirt, making up the photo of Carrie sprawled out on a comfy looking bed in a sexy pose, covered in nothing but silky sheets, scrunches up as you sit Indian-style on your dented space in the carpet. It’s time for your favorite reality show “How To Carrie Blow,” featuring the infamous Carrie Blow; a celebrity whose career can be traced back to a series of sexy tapes. “Bambi!!! Come take out the trash!!!” your mommy yells, like the house is on fire. You don’t answer because you don’t want to miss any part of the show; this is the episode where Carrie does a Playboy magazine photo shoot. You fantasize about doing a Playboy photo shoot, in nothing but diamonds, like Carrie. You think about how fantastically famous Carrie is and how her life is so perfect; especially compared to yours. “Bambi!!!” your mommy yells even louder this time, even though you didn’t think she could get any louder. “I’m coming!” You yell. You don’t understand why she always wants you to take out the gar-bage when your stepdad is always sitting around doing nothing; unless its nighttime and he is sneaking into your room when mommy is asleep. But you get up now since a commercial just came on and you race to take the trash out. As you drag the trash bag outside you see your next-door neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Tacky fighting again like cats and dogs. You plop the trash bag into the trashcan and stare around the “Hope-less Fields Trailer Park.” The weeds in the ground are countless and the

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trash is two times that, but its home...at least for now. “Why can’t I live in a clean house with nice grass...a bedroom with a door that locks, and a maid to take out the trash for me?” You ask yourself. Your thoughts drift to Carrie; the most prettiest, funniest, sexi-est, smartest, richest, most famous woman you ever saw. Your thoughts then drift to how all your problems would be solved once you are able to touch and taste fame and the true happiness it has waiting for you; like a well-to-do neighborhood on Halloween. If you could even get close to that, then your life would be so much easier. It would be perfect. As a satisfied smirk creeps along your face, lost in your daydream, you hear the show’s theme song playing continuing the show -- you rush in to finish watching.

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As your caught up in an intense scavenger hunt for your favorite tan-gerine M.A.C. lipstick you become entranced in the overwhelming collage of Carrie Blow that you meticulously scotch-taped to the severely water-stained “Motel 6” walls. While scanning the wrinkled editorials, like for-eign language flash cards, your eyes glide by the treasure of your hunt, sitting atop the hefty SONY television like the one your mother had when you were 10 years old. You check your watch as you grab the lipstick off the stack of ancient Playboy magazines your clients are accustomed to using in addition to your services. You rush to the bathroom mirror, almost tripping over a pile of dirty clothes, General Tso’s chicken mixed with shrimp-fried rice from last night, and a glass of wine next to your bed/workstation. As you color within the lines of your full lips, you pause to stare at your model card stuck to the bottom right-hand corner of the mirror frame, in comparison to the Carrie Blow picture right above it, and smile. You look just like her! Your boob-job did miracles in getting you closer to being Carrie Blow’s Doppelganger. Finishing up your lip-color application, you remember to check the status of Carrie’s whereabouts in Los Angeles tonight on Twitter before texting your next client for the day. Maybe tonight you can get your 48th picture with her to post on your Instagram? You know the one… with Carrie playfully acting as if she doesn’t remember you, while you cling to her cus-tom Alexander Wang outfit. All your past acquaintances from “Hopeless Fields Trailer Park” will be even more jealous that Carrie knows who you are -- so her fame glitter can some how be brushed onto you; giving you at least a little shine in the world. You remember that you left your bright yellow iPhone 5S on the scratched up nightstand; home to your makeshift bank account -- an old jelly jar. Scrolling down Carrie’s twitter, you find a post directly from her account stating that she’s going to be at “The Horny Toad” nightclub tonight. While waiting on your next client, you spot the half-smoked blunt ly-ing in the cigarette-cluttered ashtray and light it as you plop down on the edge of your bed and flip the T.V. on; its time for your favorite show “The

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Fabulous Life…” on VH1, featuring Carrie Blow, showcasing her lavish life style; stirring the pot of jealousy throughout America, putting on blast the amount of money spent on a daily basis by celebrities with unlimited money flow. Taking a hit of your blunt, you become lost in your empty and unrealistic dreams of fame and fortune.

[TO BE CONTINUED…]

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