The ripeness of these apples of night makes sickening the white ghost-flux faces

“Apparently, everyone was a DJ at this party. They all walked up and gave each other the DJ handshake, with lots of fists and pulling, heads bobbing approvingly to the mad beats, and sometimes a bizarre one-armed, keeping-it-real hug, as if to say, ‘I bring you into my soul, brother of sound!’ Soon they would find me, try to DJ shake my hand and I would stuff it with a disastrous two-handed effort fit for a floor salesman at the local Toyota dealer.”

Posted April 16, 2001

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