A dozen of grizzlies in exchange for a bit of the old tenderness seemed like a good deal until I realised that they were a bowling alley on the head of a bald gentleman playing hide and seek with a harpoon dipped in holy water. The harpoon looks at me as if I was a portrait of his sister-in-law after a six-week game of rock-paper-scissors. I ignore it and keep on singling out a red snapper. Refreshed after a meteor shower, I exit the paragraph on a flying saucer since my jargon is made of yesterday’s equinoxes. Remember my name, write it in saliva if there is time for dismounting the fleet. Can you keep a nasty secret? Welcome to my new reality.