Do you ever feel like — when you’re driving late at night with the correct amount of whiskey glaze on your eyeballs and a waltz dancing itself over your car stereo speakers — you’re driving on a street that is a footstep of a component of a series of complex roads and byways, like a jutting set of divergent pipes in a game of Super Mario Bros., through only a tunnel (of vision) of the endless stream of vertical and horizontal chutes that — if viewed from aloft — compose the right and left junctions of your entire life’s framework? Yet the complex, interwoven system of opaque pipes viewed from aloft and the alternating shadows and sulfurous light of the streets like the blue and red of a police siren you actually see as you drive past are two perspectives that you’ll never convince to attune, despite stark similarities — one imaginary and one imaginary? Or that the Western school of thought that’s been holding your brain hostage in a one-room schoolhouse since birth has taught you (incorrectly) that your life is a series of start points and end points — binaries being the easy shortcut to a desired result — when it’s really just a series of starts, most of them false? Do you reflect on the days when you used to be able to write worth a damn, before you tossed your words into a salad that you can’t even personally digest? Or is it just me?