The word is the wand, you magic motherfucker.

And your finesse is all that matters.
No one denies that. How could they?
Among foxes and wolves, can you really say that you're just a dog?
You're as wild, as lonely, as greedy, as driven, as unpredictable, right?
The world is your fucking forest, but who says you have to be real?
You're a goddamn wolox. A fog. A dolf.
A pomo-human. Who really cares how you classify yourself?
I certainly don't. How could I?
I have more important things to worry about.
Like songwriters of the Tin Pan Alley of American music's history.
Or the girl in the Starbucks box, her teeth fragments carefully collected and stored in a tiny, cheap canister.
Do you think she thought about things like this?
Shit, she's dead and unidentified and her skull is stored in a fucking Starbucks box.
She died some mysterious death in Indiana. She was probably a runaway from a different state, whoring to stay alive.
She's handled by countless undergrad Johns now. Thank you, Indiana State Police.
And her head's in a goddamn Starbucks coffin.