"James Jupiter is dripping in liquid plasma. James Jupiter is high and imperfect. James Jupiter wants to be human."
"Thank you for reminding me," the godesque creature said as he tipped a glass vial. "I'll forget if you don't."
My fingers are shrouded in Corona Borealis; a dusty digestibilis from the outer realm. I place my cheeks in the exhumes of a dead star and inhale the residuum of supernovae.
"James Jupiter is one million colors." I'd voiced at a speed of negative ten.
