Overheard above the sound of my mind slipping down a hole like a chain:

Red Pilot to Blue Pilot: Lose yourself in the information, Sonny.

Bulldog to Eagle: Since when do cows wear boots?

Locust to Beetle: Sing the song of throaty garbanchium. Latin is dead and so is my friend. I saw her on TV for an hour last night despite desperately trying to tune myself out.

You know, the voice of dread, the path to happiness, the mincemeat monk, the needle of celibacy and the rottening of milky smiles all have one thing in common – they haven’t been optimized in years!

Black out and receive the blessing. In the meantime I pledge to you my undying impatience and lack of resolve. I ask only for a blizzard of stimuli and a tank in which to periodically dunk my desire. This cup may be finished but that precious little sip seemed to last several insects’ lifetimes, didn’t it?

Now, Creature, won’t you please join me in a second helping of back-buzzing, buzz-packing permutation?



Pass the pigs.


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