no signature, no warning

I get an anonymous message. Both bottles contain the same substance. Double access dose. No signature, no warning. The bustle fills the bar with a dense haze in which to rest. Everyone’s monologue, echoing like a great distraction. I get another message. It’s Dennis, my editor. He needs more. More words, more facts, more lies. He needs more drugs and more sex. People want to know how others do it, openly. What their show is, their decadence, their duration, their performance. Sex as a form of fitness exquisitely dirty, timed. Dennis screams in his posts the despair of entering a late age. I wonder if Lev will be able to pull off the whole charade. If he can fake my identity. Dennis insists that I interview people who wander around the psychedelic revival like the characters in a bankrupt circus. The true witnesses of the revolution have lost their minds so as not to be contemplated, not to be taken into account. Cornered in the peace of anonymity. I reread the first message. Double access dose. The ice that was floating on the margarita continues to melt away…