Off-white on black clavicles, on white off black markets, my nostril leaking red onto white and blue silk pajamas, my pupils stretching like fireworks on the Fourth of July. My head filled with coke, my belly bloated from Pepsi and Captain Morgan spiced rum, crackling ice cubes and Boyz N The Hood on the television.

Cuba signals a crisis and an athlete turns to a Rorschach painting, then a wooden Corin Johnson sculpture, then the skeleton in a biology classroom at the University of Southern California peering through the window as the Trojans burst onto the practice field where Reggie Bush ran for the Heisman before his play was reversed.

Self-destruction is the inaugural introspectator sport, every Shakespearean tragedy published on the Jumbotron, snow on the bluff melting through a bloodstream, a glimpse into an alleyway where the only way to escape double barreled masculinity is to run serpentine.