It’s this. This, fucking ivory chopsticks. Here. Take them. Alright, yes, now hold one in each hand. Hold them and let’s think about this, alright? Let’s think about this because, hey, this isn’t going to be the worst moment in your life. I mean, there’s going to be some really terrible shit. Christ, I don’t want any of it for you. Put down one chopstick. There, on the table. Don’t waste time. It’s this moment here when—stop fucking moving—when we realize the hazard of being in the dark. You can lean against the wall. Do you remember Kunta Kinte? Can you live without a foot? I don’t know, don’t ask. Put that other chopstick in your hair and let’s us take a walk. I don’t feel like it. No, just leave my shoes there and come on. The other day, in line at the gas station, I saw an old buddy of mine. Glen, you won’t remember him. You were drunk that last time. I knew him from way back, you know? He whipped his dick out once when we were walking home from school. He did it to show some girls. Twelve, probably. Couldn’t have been anything more than baby dick. He was buying Zig-Zags. Those real big ones. He said he divorced already. Fucking kids. No one knows. You’re shivering but give me a minute here on the curb before we go on. It’s real dark, isn’t it? Now give me that chopstick. Now, see this carving? I don’t know what it means. But, think about this: someone fucking did it. Someone carved this net-looking thing into the chopstick. That’s alright. Here, just take this and throw it out there as hard as you can. Do it. Wait, wait. Don’t throw like you’re aiming. Just pull your arm back, real far. Alright, then throw it like you’re not going to do it anymore. Yeah, like that. I know it feels fucking great. That’s the oxygen in your blood. It’s the muscles you use to hold onto me. Let’s go back now and remember there’s another one. It’s right there where you left it.