Why do shapes get fantastic when the eyeballs get to wobblin' in their sockets, loose and fluid in the collision of the evening?  Why do imaginations come to life like shadows on backs starched immense with chemical encouragement? Why do the why's arise only in the saturated moment? The seat-belt is sobriety we strain to
unhinge from the girth of our lungs as we unreasonably scream obscenity to the moon. How immensity of the shy weekend agitates primal senses; teeth clattering regret for not erupting in spontaneous childlike stupidity, shuffling frustration against the well honed adult ability to refrain from speaking or sprouting peacock indulgence in the moment, the crawling out of your skin to let the best judgment lapse and perhaps dance freakish rings around the rosy for inward grace if only for a moment.