Bright pink polished toe nails flower smooth golden skin, slipping into a fresh pair of boxers quick, sting like a butterfly, float like a bee, wait, that’s the wrong way around but that’s me in a nutberry. Topsy-turvy, wrong way up. I babble against twenty-first century Babylonian butchered debauchery but only I can see. Flying out over the cuckoo’s nest, I spot a robin on the fence, scarlet feathers stark against the bright blue sky, its beak holding the tiniest twig before it darts to the other side. Since when are robins hopping about in the springtime? Drinking the last two drops of blood to stay cured, stitches in my stomach ensure I am floored, I retreat into my coffin waiting for another evening until dinner.