Christopher Jones' Insatiable Ego-Sphere - June 24th, 2005

Wrapped in a woolen blanket long ago brought hither from the frigid highlands of Guatemala, Mr. Christopher Jones spent the afternoon awaiting his immanent perishing. Even the heavy-handed humidity of the fetid swamplands could not avail to chase the chill from his shivering flesh. For hours he lay huddled. Fetus-like in his woolen womb he alternately incubated and then assassinated his quite minute, viral companions. Finally, it was nothing less than a can of cold Coca-Cola, faint echo of the Pachamama's mighty mojo, which broke his fever and left him dripping in sweat, elated. Sinchiq munasqaykuna Pachamama, yusulpayki!!!