Pre(r)amble: Ah, Las Vegas, to call the monster by the name we’ve given it. I don’t really gamble, and the spectacle of this city wore off after about my third visit, consequently I have come to the conclusion that this city is boring as hell without something to help me ‘plumb the depths’ so to speak. Maybe that’s my Hunter S. Thompson complex I wear from time to time. Anyone who reads this who is familiar with his work will no doubt see that in some respects I am ‘channeling’ or perhaps more harshly yet maybe accurately stated, ‘trying to be like him’ here. That’s fine. I believe Thompson was akin to a William S. Burroughs, a Timothy Leary or a Douglas Rushkoff – an important cultural archeologist. What’s more I truly believe there is something to his courage in taking hallucinogenic drugs and waddling full bore into the middle of the most insane city in America on a quest for the phantom of the american dream. This article will be about one of the things I have found while communing with Psilocybin in that city, and trying to later make sense of what exactly that discovery – if it is indeed a discovery – means in the context of understanding ourselves, our planet and where exactly we fit in the food chain within this strange, unpredictable Universe.