Get my Miner's Helmet Down from off the Refrigerator

I like to think, I enjoy telling myself, the casual lie, that I never lost hope, that I knew they had it "in them" but the mind was in that moment a black abyss, Mike Conley’s rain of 3rd quarter three’s providing constant dense cloud cover over any flowers my subconscious was hoping to plant. I watch them fall, one shot after another, raindrops on an hourglass, tears on my pillow, unnamed clipper penance. All is (not) for naught.

4th quarter, ears perk up, pupils dilate, skin chickens, every sound accentuated, images flash back, forth, Reggie Evans' bandage takes on unforeseen quantitative elaborations, a snake wrapped around a tree embracing life.

Nick Young breaks through the periphery, darts to a corner, is found by a genius on a mad spree, throws a ball at a bucket and a swishing ensues, then another, then another, I am erupting like a roman gladiator throwing spears in a cave, until the hieroglyphics explode in an effigy of antithesis of hypocrisy, all that’s wrong made right, everything once known as correct tossed in a salad of hypothetical yarn spinning.

 I am at one with the universe. Blake Griffin is hugging Eric Bledsoe. Moisture blankets my eyes and sockets, engulfing my face in a surrealistic hallucination. Lawler’s law never reared its beautiful (hideous) head and Graceland sits in silence, wondering what the hell just happened.