He's in a pillow fight that's drawing him, very slowly, into a time warp. Out of the goodness of his heart, a molecule crawls on four legs. Slits for eyes. He can't believe he hasn't even heard of this virtual environment until now, much less of its mushroom accelerometers. Peace, and the loss of which at that moment mourned by a spud somewhere. It takes him twenty years to reach the end of the time-curve; the pillow is losing feathers in woozy, upside-down patterns. Modern life hastens the expiration date of concentration. So now is the time to utilize the Vulcan greeting, the best tool in the universe to facilitate the two-handed armpit fart. What's not to love? the Playboy gestures to himself in the mirror, subsequently. What terrible, practiced ease in the midget's jerky, knobbly shoulder movements! His biological clock consists entirely of straps. His bipolar disorder's legless, armless pedaling of a speculum – a journey deep into the suburb's corruption of old toys, plus the yielding of third degree burns. Mood music and werewolves that share a commonality of purpose.