The germinations more, saturnalia more, group screams more. And the whole issue of playing records for each other in the dusty, seafaring night just goes away. I look out the corner window and concentrate on coming.

Name parameters here. We're at each other's mercy. And we need to break it up, to hand over the boom-bap, shit-eating grin, narly and insultingly common. And what is that? For once, it's an honest notion of folklore.

To speak and be squished. To misquote. To sing.