The last of the butterflies.  Fake out!  This winged wonder isn’t even a warrior.  The war has been over for years, this flyer is actually a Butterfly Attack Squadron re-enacter.  You can tell, those aren’t the wings for combat, those are the wings to wear in the parade.  Sorry my butterfly friends, but my contract with DARPA has expired. They have taken possession of all my designs for the new advanced psychedelic butterfly drone predators.  As of December 31, even the Japanese military attache observing my project has been reassigned.  Without any further government support, it’s time for me to doff my pith helmet and put down the long net.

  A half a world away from Syd Barrett, the poet warrior, Sensitive Samurai, finally hallucinates, time-travels, and astral-projects, all at the same time!

psychedelic butterflies

flutter in a cave

grooving with a pict


I bid one heart.    I thought I could make hearts because they are so similar to amoebas.  The good news was that hearts couldn’t take over my brain the way the butterflies did.  The bad news was that I was still in love.  I still saw butterflies in my sleep.  They were everywhere.  I loved those butterflies, especially in the smoking room.


I haven’t been good at adding letters, going all the way back to “summer 1970”.  Back in 1994, I thought I might be able to sell mazes to bars, if they spelled “drink”.  Unfortunately, the spacing between the letters was a bit irregular, and the maze looked like it said, “DR  INK”.    The good news was what happened when I phoned my girlfriend where she worked.  Usually it was mandatory for a receptionist to intercept my call and take a message.   However, when I identified myself as Dr. Ink, the receptionist was deceived and put my call right through.