In the center, on an altar, lay the sacrifice: Bad Bunny, skin mottled by the fickle light, chest rising and falling slowly. He was drugged and bound in ritual knots, hair spread like ink, moustache and goatee untamed. He smiled faintly in confusion, whispering sounds none of the other Bad Bunnys could hear.

Everyone thinks in their past lives they were very important, when it's more likely you were a serf in the fields, and lived horribly, and died horribly with a tooth infection, and all your family starved or were murdered by Mongols, and rats picked on their bones, and there were lots of mosquitos, and you had scabs. Which is why I'm glad I was a princess and had citronella candles and soft things.

Around a goldfish pond, unwashed kids tormenting love bugs, lips powder-yellow with pollen, slathered in Bahiagrass seed. The bed of an umber Ford rusts through and green is bursting bright.