The Current Incarnation of the Yonder Mountain String Band should Change its name to the Jeff Austinless String Band for Purely Artistic, if not Legal Reasons

A thousand sights did I spy on that fateful night: men and women, to whom wine had brought death long before lay strewn in haphazard embrace in the soaked undergrowth.  As their bodies compressed the earth, springs of wine shot up from below and they drank still, too stupefied to realize that their lives were long past.

As my strength failed me at length, the wind came.  The wind came indeed.  And I was seized with uncounted hands and posited verily into a vast plantations of argans.  But then nothing more could be seen an my eyes were clouded by the fragrant oil and my skin was renewed.  And my hair displayed a remarkable sheen.  And a thought came drifting in that perhaps this remarkable oil may have some commercial application?  But the thought quickly dispelled as the night lacks that impulse to entrepreneurship that so occupies the day.  So I disregarded the oil of the argans, and liberally applied (in a Bernie Sanders sort of way) the chemically pure and refined Retin-A, from Nogales purchased through my intermediary Pedro.  Pedro, he live in Nogales.  He amigo de mi madre.

Slowly, so cautiously that it might have been thought that I feared some unseen foe, I advanced to the spot shimmering though the kimchi debris and into the bibimbap proper.  "Behold," I exclaimed.  "Do you not see the last vestiges of the kale off the port bow?"  "Will we never find a way though this Sargasso sea of tasty bits so carefully blended with the common household spoon?"

As I spoke the last words of this ditty, I looked at the better from time to time, trying to ascertain the effect that the words had upon her mien.  She responded that if I were hypothetically to put her on a pedestal, she would promise to disappoint in a Courtney Barnett sort of way.  To which I hastened to reply that she did not require any elevation assistance to more than equal my stature.  That appeared to placate her, and she continued to liberally consume (in a Bernie Sanders sort of way) the mescal margarita that had been carefully formulated for our little adventure.

Just remember that whatever we may say, or whatever you may hear, all of us suffer from disturbed sleep at times.  Some in truth hardly sleep, though some who sleep copiously swear that they do not.  But on this night my sleep was so different that I sometimes wonder if it should be called sleep at all.  Perhaps it was some other state posing as sleep, as some extra dimensional entity, when they have eaten a human, will pose as the human thus consumed.  Faint echos proclaimed that the candle was gone, and with it my only source of light.  My groping in the dark ended in futility, and I was left alone that night, struggling with demons that only became imaginary at the light of day.