Trish is loading my gun. There is a smile upon her face. A cruel smile is the only one she knows. There is a seasoned quality to her hands as she works the mechanism. We were somewhere on the edge of a cornfield near Jesup, Iowa, the drugs are beginning to take hold. I tell Trish that I feel a little light headed and ask her if she felt like driving. She looks at me and opens her moth real wide, impossibly wide and there was this silence that seemed like an eternity. Then came this roar, it came out of her mouth, but its source was far away. It was a roar that might exist in the center of a black hole, as everything gets compacting into one another. Trish had taken her shirt off and was pouring sangria on her chest. “Damn it is hot,” she says and asks me why I’m staring at her. We were head to this special place that was famous for making the best baked potatoes in the world. As I kept driving Trish began to incorporate a magical vocabulary into her speech as she talked about the signs in the sky and what they meant to her and I. She was detailing her higher knowledge of the astral Arcanum when a tire went flat. I sent up smoke signals to Black Elk to send help. I fished a couple of cold beers out of the cooler and we waited for the rescue party. We painted messages on the rocks. We sold bracelets to tourists as they drove by in their ramblers. We set up a tent and watched the stars pass by us. Trish was counting all of the falling stars. Trish contemplated about all the meaningless questions. The mere mechanical process of touching her buttons sharpens my thoughts. There is something going on between me and her body. In a way, her body acts as a stimulus, it is a cooperative thing. I don’t pretend to understand it. We are working in an uncomfortable position. Trish says that the discomfort helps. We have both accepted the fact of our demonic natures. We are always in trouble, with our relationships, with work, with our friends. At times, it seems as if everything is spinning uncontrollably off the face of the earth. Trish thinks it’s bad to think. She is not very good at thinking. She operates from some deep down place that is inside of her, I guess it may be called intuition. She guides her steps by the winds of fate and doesn’t stop to ask why. She is a creature of action, of movement. She is constantly moving at the speed of light. It is impossible for me to keep up with her. She knows what she wants to do, but she doesn’t spend time thinking about how to do it, she does it. If it is not perfect, she doesn’t let that bother her. Trish says that life is not perfect. We use our antennas to hook ourselves up to the currents of the moment. We ride upon the winds of the times. We are intermediaries attaching ourselves to the ghosts and the gods. They whisper sweet nothing into our ears and we have enough good sense to write it down.