BY HEATHER McCOY
The black tar in his head was more than he could handle.
Toe-tappin fun with his fingers deep in some dude's brain.
"Look what happens when I poke him here....Guy near beat himself out cold. Good times. Good times."
Air drummin' with a scalpel and scissors. Little dewy drops of blood flickin' on everybody - the nurse's shirt pocket, Scalpy-guy's face, the wall.
Now it flows. Yeah. The music. A cool crisp stream within the sludge.