“Smile Now Cry Later” the clown tattoos keep saying, but I can’t seem to hear them well enough to practice it. Maybe I need to get it tattooed into my own skin, with hobo clowns, to force the message into my body, making a stubborn goat-headed man finally see the light. “Smile Now Cry Later” as a mocking reminder in the mirror every morning, after spitting charcoal toothpaste into the sink, hobo clowns bastard faces reminding me that I never disappeared, and the frustrations of stuckness are unhacked weeds which grow into hawthorn bushes, prickly frustrating walls that get too high to navigate. Not enough machete swinging in my life, on neither the physical nor astral planes.
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