In my next life I think I'd like to be a rolling stone. Unencumbered by mosslike growths beneath the hat that won't stay put as I tumble, headlong, toward the unsuspecting villagers below, papa's sly smile would become a dizzying reminder of frowns turned upside down, then right side up, then upside down, for ad nauseam repetition makes the world go round.
Two-dimensional characters may seem ambulatory in the flat light of morning, but peppered with salty language and a twist, the self-thickening plot relies less on heroin than on the natural accumulation of grit as the rock . . . slips . . . a little . . . bit.