Except for the black ones, but even those. He was preaching about tits. Abundant like barnacles. A smile peeked through his unkempt upper lip. His philtrum had long sprouted facial hair older than the follicles slipping through my denim strands, or those rooted beneath my scalp, older than my entirety, even. It was the kind of smile that evokes veneration, just enough teeth that one reveals a little of their own. His lids glossed nostalgia over his eyes with every blink, so subtly. Essentially, he was preaching about tits. You can never get enough. Money, yeah. They’re all the same, really. Except for the black ones, but even those. Never can you get enough. Abundant like barnacles; a sea of breasts, each minutely different from the other and each just as coveted as the last. Like mantras sung by mothers, you must know, Stop and smell the roses. Jerry just had a patriarchal synonymous mantra. If I were to paraphrase: Every man’s eyes close once and never reopen, see as many tits as you can beforehand. 

MACONSUN