The tattoo on Fred's abscess eases the pressure within. Like kittens, knees jailed, crawling inky over parking lot veins. Super-smut tapers below the resurrected grid with the sensitivity of pearls in a layer of boring Bing. Explodes into condensed e-vomit, ugly. Knowing that 911 is an app, knowing that it is a contraption that is not good to use near trees. Insomniacs vape more vapaciously than anyone else, apparently. Maybe they're addicted to Earth-fucking. Clowns are, as they say, clones: they let us slip on their tentacles at carnivals. Their testicles. Stabbed snowflakes curdle then disappear, like. As I was saying the toilet does not at first fully obscure the Lamb – meta-crustaceans in the keyhole decapitate peeping toms by sucking all the calories out of their eyes. This is called annihilation by means of a dramatic EXIT of swallowed lice. The digital ghost was a mango, not Harvey Keitel. Frying in an astronaut's science-warm pan, bashing a metropolis. Godzilla, not Pinocchio, was a child actor who never knew the joy of playing with the trippy jelly of their own pulp/poop.