He calls with a thrumming in his throat,say his arteries want to explode,his liver is staging a prison revolt,heart pounding its jail of ribs,he doesn’t know if the marrow will hold.

Blames Byron who brought him the blow,or Kat who broke his bong, left him hunched over the stove warming a knife,balancing buds on a stainless steel blade.

And oh shit, everything in the fridgehe’s stuffed down his throat, his roommates are gonna be pissed -and can I run to the store for breadand popcorn, and two bags of stir-fry mix?