Exploring themes of abandonment, addiction, and refusing to accept the angst that comes with a mid-life lived dominated by fear, up to this very moment, Black Ginger ponders a life without fear but ultimately opts for something sexual. As always. The book of whiskey. Always. It could also have been called the book of weed. Always. But alliteration would have been inevitable with the inclusion of wine so one too prone of it was found to find restraint. But of course, they all find their way. To the snake and the stone and the knife, for they all find a way to disguise and direct, to poison and pound and they practice their relay along our course, batons and cleats and sweat. And the snake becameth stone and it sneered and churned up dust but I was afraid not and cupped it in my hand. The knife. Which one? Perhaps all we need is a machete. Black Ginger wants to be misunderstood as much as gathered. It wants to be sought and thought determined, only to be nearly lured to sleep by the screech of cellos and tires and mushrooms until the fucking finds you suddenly hungry. Black Ginger was pictures and is now begun. It, once so rich and fertile in my mind, now drones on in near repetition. Blessed Mary, mother of god, please forgive me… Who are we? Are we who we wanted to be? Are we who we were? Are we who we think we are? Are we the person others perceive? And freedom? Choose your master wisely, is really the best advice i can offer. It is really just too much to take. Lets all go have a drink.