I used to wear rainbows, but now I wear a smirk and yesterday's mascara, streaked on my cheekbones like war paint. I write slanderous songs and am wanted in four dimensions for practicing red magic and corporeal transcendence. I keep your future in a cheap cookie tin, my pornography in an F drive, and a Colt Trooper loaded for when they put me on the black list. I write epic poetry on crumpled Mumba wrappers, collected when you weren't looking. No one knows why I wear orange yarn on my wrist, but no one's asked either. But this was carved with rusty quills onto my DNA before I was born, wasn't it?