Here is where things slow down, here in the near beginning of the story. I have finished my bottle, as you can see and wish I had another. There aren't likely to be any entertaining hallucinations from only one bottle. No army of ants with Maggie Thatcher's head marching at me, cooing with their tentacles about the need to defend the Falkland Islands. No orgy vision of her orally satisfying everyone in that terrible biker bar she hangs out in.

See that’s why she doesn't want to be with me. Those kinds of thoughts. Dark, serious, sexual, amoral. She is opposed to all. Still, I wish I had another bottle. The road is long and winding and if I had an aerial photograph I'd show you the road, bending like a river that cuts down a mountainside. I made this journey once with my father once, he told me then something I've never forgotten.

But I shall quiet my thoughts now, quiet them like slow music. Someone approaches....