Wine

They say wine drunkenness can lift you over the rooftops. Who says that? It could, I don't know. All I know is that last night I lay my tired bones down on the street, flirting with homelessness, flirting with the sky above and the monolithic office towers to the side. Feasting my rods (photoreceptors) on their flashing lights, I was. Computers and adding machines rain down on my head. I shout at the vast stone of war but the drift of driving 4/4 beats from the block I left behind is more than my voice. The beat machine can strike more overtones, both above and below the average pitch of my voice (somewhere around G2 to C3, if that means anything to you). I smack my had into a bus shelter. Why do people's actions rarely mesh with their words? Yes, I am an unsuccessful, frustrated male. If I had my way, I'd rather discuss cognitive science outisde the nightclub than likc walls of sweat in searing 40 degree heat inside, where conversation is impossible and only the powerful but imprecise language of bodyu motion and desire matters. Nobody ever taught me that language. So, is that it? You speak the duckspeak of committment and then jack up the random encounters and the jealousies. Or is it part of your design, some grand God's-eye-view scheme? I didn't spend the night on the street. I smiled later. I would laugh again. And if only the rain were cold, I wouldhave spun in it. Who said AI was flawed? AI is the love of my cognitive life, my neocortex reaching out and touching the unbending metal. Sometimes rods get confused with phalluses and I have to put in a disambiguating word in parentheses. But there is no disambiguating parenthtical statement for that writing wall of sweat they call a good time.

Consider: "(1S-cis)-4-(3,4-dichlorophenyl)-1,2,3,4-tetrahydro-N-methyl-1-naphthalenamine hydrochloride."