A song of place. Stereo separation, separation. If I possessed color printouts of this, I'd put it on my side dashboard. AMERICA FUCKIN' RULES! How peaches look at me, how they'd never throw eggs at me again.[1]

But thin cool me suggests the onset of Brian's hepatitis, and how, as with the late Romantics, those long illnesses led to inwardness, time inside with slippers and body, a lumberjackitude of late afternoons.

A reversed Emerson, eyeball to eyeball.

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[1] Money shot, Peter North, On Golden Blonde (Adam [sic], 1984).