It was the middle of the day, high noon, amid a canyon, atop a red rock. Everything was on dusty scripts in Cherokee and Navajo, it was heeling a Mexican extravaganza. It was a fantastic reverie, an irreverent fantasy, it was whatever begets a distinction from archaic routine. I had been revived by the spirit of my new friend, a proper stranger. He was young and fazed by how much you have to know to make it through a day or the day teaches in consequences and not lessons. He had multiple dependencies. Multiple. Excessive. It was like a collection of pizzazz and horror that circled back to a point where beginning to fix anything was stunted by how many ideas you can lose in the middle of a sentence. I had borrowed his caravan to blast myself in a desert. I was always verging on death, never doing it…
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Antonella Lallo 
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