The failed and late Holy Roman Empire. What-the-hell. One for the Belgians, the first of many. Step step. Arms flail in latest-single exeunt. A more personal singer reaches to us-less sincere, but real. She's a pantheistic Miss Thing, isn't she?

And ooh! This is the first talk-over-the-solo solo. Alright! Go! The late work has begun, not as incidental dialogue, but regular and necessary stage directions. Butt slap! God's intercession!

A hand reaches out to us. Tasteful? No. But we don't deserve taste.