This chapter was created with the artist in a vulnerable state. Tired of tripping, but not ready to fall. Like a Morgantown stripper with an “It‘s My Life“ tattoo and alopecia areata, on the last public transport opportunity home to the projects, after a thirty-lab-dance-shift on Halloween 1997, where she served cheap ghosts and goblins who smelled like Sloppy Joes with extra onions. Enjoy the contradictions of a life on the magic bus; we will be oscillating between sleep and wakefulness and the only color of significance is red.
