A headache grows like an iron mushroom, swelling the head, at length an oily desert is left on top.

The back begins tying knots, fancy ones it had learned long ago, in boy scouts maybe; restraining the joints which crackle back in protest.

The teeth grind away, attempting to perfect their shape, but having no definite goal in mind, no clear idea from the outset what form they seek, give up the quest, disperse, and rent out their property to those two festal partners Despair and Self-pity.

The mind, getting to know the new neigbors, parties often late into the night, sometimes ‘til daybreak. Eventually strung out on their barbiturates, it goes on holiday; somewhere rustic where even the US Post has trouble delivering.