Denton

Fairly recently, I went to a party and had the cookies and the chocolates, realizing not that the two were under no circumstances to be mixed. The cookies settled me into a philosophical and protracted state of turbocharged brain function. The chocolates made sweet, sweet love to my optical nerves and romantic, silky lust to some various other neurological processes. The most powerful image, with the exception of the pillow constructed Hebrew Gollum sitting next to me in the jungle chair, was when I was sitting on the porch watching the mellow flow of sodium light dying the universe mute orange.

Two people walked up to each other and out of their heads, a disc expanding in infinite distance, was a beautiful galaxy full of all the beauty of the cosmos. When they walked up to each other, the small girl in her red sweater and short skirt and the man in his baggy jeans and hoody, the galaxies overlapped. As they said their small hellos and shared a word or two, a new constellation burst into the overlapping discs. As they smiled and parted ways, the constellation split and followed the two galaxies away, bound in centerfield by the two neuropathway machines inside the heads of the two.

I stayed in my stupor of peace, feeling the need to connect to someone with touch and galaxy collision. I needed to see someone else's universe. I looked towards the living room and saw the object of some earlier inspiration. The chocolates made me perceive her in Platonic idea and pagan, pantheist bliss. Not short, not tall, flaming locks of auburn hair. I saw her in statuary and driftwood idols. With her smile, the universe decided to be a happy, golden place. She was to be respected and worshipped. I wanted to sit at the temple of her femininity so we could worship each other as celestial god-beings. We were after all, children of the dust of stars. Gods of small universes. The cookies made me lazy. I decided to sit on the porch a little longer.

Gradually, the reality I knew and repected returned. The green leaves were no longer the living testament to hydrology. The stars were just balls of gas far away. My friend, my good old friend, came out and sat next to me. We heard the repetitive, boring music of the stoned and saw the flashing blue and green of a light show designed to keep the mind from turning on itself in states of pharmos. My friend was over his chemicals as well. We sat in the cool breeze, smelled trash and something dead in the bushes, and looked at each other, no longer mystical machines, only biological miracles.

"God, I want to fuck the shit out of that chick."

"Fuckin' A, dude."