Sometimes I need a smooth latte to squelch my thirst.  I feel primed and ready to explode.  Everything stands at attention, snaps back at my grin, a feel good moment that just wants to burst forth and cop a feel.  A smirk and shift in posture that leads the audience on a magic carpet ride—a political romp through the grittiest of Safaris.  I’d show Hemingway around whilst reading a Fleming.  I’m a spy built for battle–a mage destined to take the tower in hooded geekiness.  I’d stand atop arms akimbo awaiting for a bolt of lightning to strike my chest.  Heart Attack, a flash, and then the sky ripped open and a bolt of Zeus struck my chest, singed the hair, Vibraniumed my rib cage, and jump started my heart like a Chevette possessed to run.  I would have fallen to my knees if I were a lesser man, but instead I transcended—I floated.  I found my path and it wasn’t grounded in literals and metaphors it was steeped in literary sophistication.  As my vision cleared there it was—a pen and a piece of paper propped up on a pedestal.  Like a fountain run black with squid’s ink it flowed and spurt forth lexicons and dictions that kicked the studded tires and squealed out on the lanes of rhetoric.

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