We sat and watched the voltage-controlled oscillator plot the hills and valleys of our thoughts, of the missing spark stolen from our full moon dreams, while I considered Victorian robots with grim faces. All solid brass, excellent screw fittings and a modular design, perfect for fetching tea for earls and duchesses, lined up in rows of musket smoke and cannonade. Lament thy thirst of boundless power too late, Britannia, eaten hollow by the witching green fire of Hindu steamships gunning on the Thames.

Really, it's about What the Thunder Said, saying Solaris is complicated, and difficult to install. Hanging stars in their sockets, a task for weak men and angels, is never finished. The ladder rests its head on the marquee now and forever, novas rewriting the boilerplate. It's a Discrete Cosine Transform between the totem we seek and the cherup of a cricket, endowed with the fevered power of a thousand year glacier, knifing the cold fall air to serenade the coming winter. We should all herald our destroyers, cowardice be damned.

To be hoist by one's own petard like an Antwerp Champion, that's the life for me. Giving Praise to the Woman at the End of the World, Ahungered. At the round earth's imagin'd corners, blow. I thought the guillotine was a monstrous way of killing people, some tail-end of a cold war orgasm crafted by a tick-bitten Variolitic, but it has a grace born from malice. Knock the head from off its throne so that it can see the world as those it trod upon, if only briefly. Majestic and cruel, like so many others.

a zero-maximum on our hearts, heads and tears as we work toward the new horizon.

The poetical ones are them most irksome to me. They imply that one artist enjoys another artist spitting into his mouth, and that's just wrong, after a fashion. Being filled up completely with thick golden light is too much for many to bear, forcing a fish-faced fever of gasping, thumbing the soul back into it's kingdom, crown on head. These assaults on serenity, so many levels of effort misdirected, so many miles of road untrammeled, the hive that should be filled with bees. They took to wandering against their purpose, drunkards slicked with honey. A todo list on the dresser of some pathetic bastard who hung himself from the rafters poorly, reflecting laziness, apathy, pointlessly empty critical graffiti against a life poorly lived, big signs that point to our weaknesses.

From now on, things are going to go very badly for you, Teen Lust Industrial Complex. A cock-up at the Post Office did not get me upset, though my romantic notions were tarnished a tad. Wetworks by Euclid don't sell well here, snake oil in a valley of vipers.

Fie, and Truth in Advertising! Shock and Awe our Hearts and Minds until people without measure beg sensitive introspectives instead of ashes and commerce.

For Halspal?