2002-05-10 - 3:03 PM

The air is chemical, swirling sailing sulphizing stacatto stains. The air is imagry, blue barbeque doormen wiping their feet on the doormats of justice. The air is mispelled, like a red cocoon holding life with the hollows of its burning flag. The world is not safe or sane, mostly inane, but robot monkeys wriggle around in bags of soap flakes and make things a little entertaining. Whistling. Just above the threshhold of sound.