They just don’t make any sense. They start out making sense. You’re wandering around at night, like in between teepees, chasing after the white coyote, you know, because it has the secret and everything. Makes sense. But by the end, you’re like on some cloud, trapped in a marriage to some evil he-god, and the only way to get out is to—wait, you can’t even get out. That’s the thing. But then your child grows up and is later seen holding a snake in one hand and a bag of corn Tostitos in another. And that’s pretty much when I decided drugs were bad.