DL: "So what's your trick?" SH: "Well, I

DL: "So what's your trick?" SH: "Well, I can knit with my feet" DL: "Socks?" SH: "No,

The studio exec looked at Tim Burton. "Wrote this yourself?" Burton beemed, "Yep." The studio exec stared at the treatment written on a pizza box. For the first time in his life

the exec was speechless. His flabber was 100% gasted. Burton had apparently used a pizza box to depict a graphic illustration of

the Kama Sutra using plush toys and a garden hose. What did it matter anyway? In three hours the lightning would strike turning that stupid corpse back into grim animation. The

damned process kept repeating itself, day after miserable day: corpse, undead, corpse, undead, etc. It was a cruel joke, like Prometheus or Sisyphus, and I seemed doomed to witness

History repeating itself. Cormac McCarthy and J.G. Ballard were correct. I loved their fiction. Being a witness gave me something to write about in my journal.

But witnessing such a major crime changed me. I could keep on writing about but my ptsd was off the chard so I couldn't really do anything else. I looked for help anywhere but the

produce section was out of swiss chard. If I didn't find chard soon, I'd become some Lovecraftian horror & all would be for naught, for witness protection could never save me from

The Old Ones when my new tattoo saw the Light. Eldritch forces were at play in the subtext; each added phrase was a minefield.