I am a great artificer in a cut and paste world distilled through the funhouse maze labyrinth of my mind where a thing is reflected and re-reflected into splinters. My art is magic, the same kind of magic as prestidigitation, and shuffles unseen mortal coils down the galumphing gullets that fester flickering in the bath of neuroses encased by bone contouring the shape of my face. The universe, I solipismize, secretly fearing I am not really alone. What is it is transliterated to who is it. The pathways down from the hilled city are convulted, and at the bottom one despairs of ever returning home.