Dear God,
The patient's best intentions
have sadly faltered.
Despite his newly installed, varnished brain,
and being force-fed gallons of viscous demented liquor,
he is determined to obtain the new drone spiders' trophy.
He dreams of becoming the scorpion who never sweats.
Quite frankly, I'm sickened to have this individual infiltrate
my headspace.
He talks of lascivious laughs haunting his every second
as the clock spits, clicks, and time speeds by in the
form of a neon snake.
Massive delusions?
Very probably.
