... are like a finely aged pile of shit. A dry fissured exterior hiding a still moist, still warm center of bronze ambrosia of the perfect consistency. I promised myself I would not come back. Yet like the prodigal son, I have returned. Unable to resist the temptation to poke you with a stick or to crush you beneath my feet. To feel you explode between my toes with all your pungent glory.





Jing Lives.