Drifting disconsolately, furiously attempting to tear the future from our eyes. Fate boarded the bus, the stifling heat of the streets leaping from its gelatinous antennae. Opium is love, a self-contained manifesto throbbing with the last vestiges of patriotism, nationalism, and that look in your eyes. Her buttocks lifted and curved just so. Pandemic hedonism availed itself of the end of the day, sticking and moving, sticking and moving, no longer sure what to think. Anemic elevation. Whorling combinations of thought declared illegal, confined to the back alleys of ontology. You really aren't all that unattractve when you comb the insects away from your miasma, leaving just a slight residue on the carpet for our olfactory enjoyment. Three-quarters of an illumination, half a nihilistic spectrum around which machine-grace can lasciviously embrace its own prayers for desire gratified. Animism is clearly no longer the enemy, its aesthetic absorbed centuries before our current predicament. Anomie washing its face in public toilets, a wan grin its only defence against the harsh stares of secretaries rushing by on their way to work. Plasma was definitely in style that spring, sucking its teeth imperiosuly at assistants, riding linoleum limousines everywhere as it hopelessly chased after the moon's encapsulating light.