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I like to look at a blacklight in the dark, but I wish I could see where the light is coming from. How can I know that its fantasy fluid can ground a rifle lamp? Even in my drawn dreams of card meat tables, I sing and worship the lawn dry cylinder, black and smooth, curving the perfection of its mold. I try to squint and watch its line trace the unerring path, but I see only the dots, one at a time.

Chilean rubber bandits camp outside my doorstep, drooling deeply in the night, wearing pocket knives around their teeth to masquerade as braces. It is my most prized possession, my blacklight, and it seems that everyone regards its jointed onyx rays as the first step of a shore launch voyage. But I cannot use it yet; not until I probe its bowels and unearth its entrails; not until I wear its guts and sing its falsettos; not until I digest its throat and digest its esophagus – not until I know where the light comes from.