Delighted was the waking Kurt. He thought, "Direness, familar to my slaughterous thoughts, cannot once start me." Kurt was as giddy as a spinning top. Talented youth is always confident.
Today was the day Kurt would search for Nirvana. He started out by searching for his syringe. The syringe! Like a gunfighter's
pistols, Kurt had discovered that syringes could be valuable companions in artistic out-of-body Odysseys.
The heroin went into Kurt and Kurt went out of his body and into cloud-art-heaven. He levitated into Apollo's blue skies, where he found paradise in poetry. For days or years, he drank penny-royal tea, listened to heavenly music, consorted with women of sublime beauty, and viewed all the brilliant paintings of Gaiia. But the cloud years ended, as they always do,
Kurt returned to Kurt and the deadly top was set to spin.
The pain was daily, and the world's symphony seemed out of tune. "There's nothing curious left in mortality," thought Kurt. "It's better to burn out than
to fade away."
With that, and the help of a friendly shot-gun, Kurt Blowbrain bought a ticket to cloud-art-heaven. And he should have died tommorow. There would have been a time for such a bird.