Action Sequence via Suburban BBQ.

Where were you. When I was deep in the woods looking up sighting three legged dogs leaping alongside deer with shines of faraway lights dim in my pupil. Where were you? While I rang up the coroner to inquire of the party supervisor, while I tore my clothes off in the river, while I leapt from the bridge embankment in slow motion with an explosion tearing out my eardrums. Where were you? You were out in the backyard flirting with the lady with the black tooth and shaky hands. Gripping a drink with slow ice cubes revolving like heavenly bodies, looking up coquettishly in a random display of lust, you were coercing some lovely broken waitress behind the proverbial dumpster to have a go at love and dreams and mental breakdowns. That's where you were. While I flung a detonator in the air with the glass of aquariums spiraling about the scene, somersaulting into the nearest cave that conveniently shielded the blast, you were standing with your left fist jammed into your pants in the backyard; at a barbecue that dripped with amnesia. You didn't know where you were to be exact. While I was parachuting downtown with a knife clenched in my teeth you were lumbering about a suburban cliche and summarising plot twists to eight year olds with a dazed look in your eyes.