It was one of many poor decisions made through a lifetime of anguish and despair. If I were to look into a mirror I would see a skeleton of what I once was, or worse, perhaps, a figment of my imagination, wisps of memory applied haphazardly on my cortex like the electrodes from an electroencephalogram. In a complete parody of my existence my feeble brain would monitor the electrical activity of the machine, rather than it of me. Really just a hair’s width of stupidity strung between nascent neurons that no longer fire happily. So I’ve heard. It’s not enough to slither along the back alleys of life, tongue flicking along the walls of what should but can no longer be, tasting only the residue others have left behind. A forked appendage is no substitute for the real thing, and as such I can no longer taste what others simply believe, without hesitation or cause for concern. Sssslither is what I do best, curvaceous undulations of muscle with a pattern conceivable only on a molecular level, if at all. In the end there’s no hope for a society blind from the radiation emitted from electronic wizardry. Ha! What would all the other slitherers say? Round and round their voices grow louder and louder until even the echoes of my breath reverberated in my head. BAM! BAM! BAM! In a roiling mass of flesh we roll and roll and roll along the tundra of our happenstance. Impotent of voice but virile of bite, one slip of the tongue and termination is just a salvation away.