I had a vacuum installed in my lungs so that I could smoke more pot. But the damn thing keeps breaking down and sometimes when I go for a rip it feels like I'm smoking boulders and I think the other lions are laughing at me. And this hollow wind creeps up on me like a gift from outer space and a grumbling of styrofoam elk can be herd falling out of the kitchen closet. As if the fork of pride had been taped to the leg of a dusty chuck wagon and life starts anew. Time has slowed down to match your heart beat. In the distance you feel the point where infinity explodes upon itself in and splinters into a foggy cough. And the next thing you know you are bargaining with a bunch of imaginary thrift store jewlery, the roof caves in and all the tags on the clothing items have been mysteriously restapled to reflect the impending regiment of mustacioed three year olds. And a fart is gloriously squeezed in honor of the goddess Athena. And in the far corner of my mind I can hear a rusty cornucopia, and then a thuggish pounding, "come in" and you enter and I immediately request that you smoke a huge load of marijuana. And you do. The end.