I am a humane human, a self-hewed man breathing gravity, and this is calamity, that we are spinning preening mundanity, you call it insanity, lonesome till we drop, wielding in secret our wondergunk. Too long we avoid the under thought the polyphonic rot, the humper bunk, the magnificent, the tall the tender, the blunderating treasure junk.

So set the stage the scene: the sanifying unclean dream, the seething wrinkled Emperor--they call him Palpatine--threatening rebels in bunkers; we hunker down, sing to clowns in the eastern end of Chinatown. You frown, drowning, its surround-sound mourning, and in mid-colouriflowericarbonation and zesty spraycan solutionizing we interject medievalisms like 'zounds gods'wounds and gadzooks;' the marvelous mountain looms and beckons, we yodel, we sing singly, we highly-evolved gorilla beasts, urn-hopping, luck-larking and featherdusting, we hophead telestrators boasting diamonds and bandonwagon-smashed thunderbusting in a postmodern police-state closed-circuit cameraland which can't even prevent the stealing of the Scream. The oil-slick mavericks, the gunswinging whisky-swilling pill-popping jaw-dropping bossanova banditry slithers querulously and circumnavigates the globe exaggerating our spy-novel-prompted paranoia, swelling uncertainty spreads to extremities, in the end you give up scoffing 'for five hundred dollars, there better be some damn good amenities.' Yes yes here in the Hysteria Hotel we mop our hair with petro-gel, awaiting the subtle click, the telling tick, and it's caught in the quick--the millimetre-thick guitar pick forensics cops trace turquoise tulips around, those criminal chalk lines shivering timbers up to Nunavut and halfway round to Igloolik.

(pass me now a brown paper sack--I'm thinking that I might be sick)

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