As we laid on our backs, side by side gazing out into space, we passed a joint rolled in the rush of mushroom delight and small embers drifted into the valley between our breasts eliciting giggles at the pangs of their dying on our flesh.
Throughout the rest of our lives we recognized the shiny scars from such minute blisters on the chests and cleavages of folks we'd meet without acknowledging the common nature of the unique scarification among us all.
It was a brand of thinking, you might say — a distant cousin to Pink Floyd's pin hole burnt T-shirt.
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