8:7) chris abraham 02-SEP-97 4:20

I had been hunting for him so it was a fair loss, but when I arrived on shore, there were terrible welts where the genius had taken hold. They were red and indelible for quite some time, having broken the blood vessels, creating bruises. The Mark of the octopus from that day were as flowing and dynamic as the patterns dancing on the flesh of the Seattleite. Half-shirts, tank-tops, halter-tops, no shirt at all. The dancing of the image on the flesh; the tinkling of rings and jewelry. The clicking against the teeth as the boy absentmindedly plays with the silver barbell in his tongue as he pulls you off a shot of espresso.