It is at times like this, in the dark late hours of the night, with screeches of victory mixed in equal measure with lizard mercy killings, equating words with will with power with mystick essence and corporate demagoguery and strange symbols that I somehow can't quite explain scribbled across sacred soul pages, and visions of mojo nixon and AK-47's dancing through my heaD, dollars signs rolling by eyes tainted with megalomaniacal owl-worship ritual, antique revolver questions, music thumping, the love of Christ a mere foot above prophetic skin-ink commitment, and a face curdled by both psychotic love and, yes, bitter bottled kiss, that I realize that my head is, technically, a little bit in the clouds.