I write and draw and refine my brand in a black swan song of my contained multitudes. Each volume is a cargo container of my trademark mix of multi-undisciplinary miscegenated-media mutterings upon the nature of our bedevilment. This is my dead drop to the trap-house beyond death, forged of flesh and flame before I drop dead into the refulgent quim of post-procrastination tristesse. Don’t mind me. Don’t deny a dying man the blithering morphia of his final fantasies. As long as my deep cover of delusion keeps me floating far above the sordid mortal haggle, I’ll append any number of post-post-scripts, and without apology I’ll play it up like Cher’s newest last campaign for souls. Please hold for the patter of my holding pattern’s attitude of pitch, drugs, sex and roll, yaw’l [sic]. I’m all like maudlin aplomb and somber pomp until my last liber of life is imbibed, the burning liquidity of which wrings my guts into Play-Doh worms of primal squirmy Sephirot.