If you stare into the abyss, you will fuck up the abyss. Here's a montage of the infection. Brilliant thaw dulls blood. Like the cellophane-like membrane of a cozy fireplace, Satan's Morphsuit weeps raw magma. Organic gods stroke each others' orange peel, trippin balls on Viagra. They have about as much fun as aliens visiting earth in rental ozone diapers. Amoebas hear in bland stereo, skin trapped in animated acne. Emphysemic Lego dances to its own farty clicks, sits cross-legged on Mars's video game moss. At one point, universe-fat becomes the Bigger Picture. On earth, I failed every barbwired polygraph. It was relieving. Digging how chemistry accelerates self-awareness, at parties. Seducing stones out of hiding. Filling a crack in the door with limbs that try to stage a chicken uprising in order to run through the sunset's Jurassic pancake. The soul's dark matter now wears Christmas jumpers while its digital muscles mow the lawn, forming a big wound that spills trash from its gross sphere. Dials spaz out, eccentric shitfaced mystery-manure sprout erogenous touch points shaped like hooves. At last, in a fusing of channels rooted in worn-out spandex, the haunted-house echoes of friction are sealed in by the constriction of beauty.