Another time, a raven, this one with a comb-over and an ugly tie with no cartoon characters on it told me I was waging a long and bloody war on my bladder
"I wasn't aware I was doing that" I replied absently; distracted by trying to stare at the tip of my nose as to draw my steely grey irises together like they had suddenly become magnetized
"Yes you are" he reasserted
Vaseline began to creep through cracks in the tiles, making the floor quite slippery
"You must cut out your bladder using a dagger" he said
"and turn it inside out"
"and stuff it with chives and garlic"
"and marinade it in fine sauces"
"and cook it for exactly three hours and no minutes"
"and season it gently"
"and advertise it as ethnic cuisine"
"and sell it to an urban middle-class couple who wants to appear more cultured"
"and watch as they eat it and describe the synergy of the flavors and the multi-layered properties of the textures"
"But you shouldn't enjoy this process too much" he warned "as to seem magnanimous in your victory"
I wanted to ask him how he knew all this and if there was a vending machine nearby because my ocular exercises had created a powerful hunger
But he left through a closed door before I could
The smell of warm tuna stirred in his wake

My heart wanted to agree with his assessment
But my head wouldn't permit it
And my genitalia wanted me to store a mental picture of his feet for later
I wondered if other people had ironic genitalia like me
Often times when I'm alone I hear a screaming sound emanating from just above my chin