As one who has just died finds their bearings among the many rooms of death, they quickly stumble upon a set of circuit breakers. Down a short hallway, past the closets that hold Jupiter, Saturn and assorted brooms, mops and cleaning supplies. Past the courtyard where all the unused tornadoes are kept.

Most people I know, as much as they front, are walking disasters. Baffled by the shit their minds and bodies throw at them, they build elaborate but ridiculous-looking forts to escape the threat of insanity and the marching drums of age and death.