I think back to our time at the waterpark with a great knot of snakes coiled at the base of my stomach, writhing, writhing, suffocating me from inside out. Form must follow function, as you sooooo often remind me, and the twisted spiral of us is as the meandering curve of the water slide, perilously tossing its rider in a headlong drive towards the churning waters of finality. Your slide is my snake, my snake eating its own tail. If we are an Ouroboros, Josh, a snake consuming itself, tail-first, then I am the fangs and you, sir, are an ass.