the Lump was born in Philadelphia, and so was I--I and he, a blurred line, thin and blue, and everything that that entails. everywhere you go, rats on the floor, crickets on the walls, hornets in the fuse-box. land is desolate, raped. the only horses are under captive legs. the neon signs boast liquor and tits, motels every other block in low-rise pits. we spit on the roads and flick our ashes out of windows, manipulated into guilt by the self-righteous parents of the next generation who would be more than delighted if we died at sea--far away, out of sight, forgotten and forgiven of regret. we only wanted to be machines. we were, and now we are. the Lump and I, together forever--I must have brought him along as carrion, or he me. friends to the end. no more distance between us than N and Q. the genius behind my greatest shit-work. thin and blue; both of us--six illnesses, or maybe more. I choose not to count. pulling up the roots, our own worst critic, the fucking editors who butcher our work have nothing on us. I hate, we hate, everything we've done, and love it as well.