“I craved only the most compelling pleasures then, a wanton tongue

crushed against mine, char-broiled meat, my brush’s wet scrape across

a sheet of handmade paper, a transparent water glass riven gold by a

lamp’s muted sheen. I had escaped alcohol’s leathery grasp and

vanquished the chattering devils who’d been hissing in my ears for two

decades. But like an infant, I couldn’t filter the torrent of

sensations bombarding me. I shunned what I wanted most, as though I

might crash through the skylight of my own desires.”

-Al Billings

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