The infernal spring-pressure of Gotham's pop-up Frankenstein and Silicon Valley's levitating rust and the Bermuda Triangle's throbbing wet gills is a necessary force that pushes like the sand of a Pinterest burial vortex applied on a prone, unprotected area to reach deep comfort in tapeworm-like depravity from any position inside Bowser's sweatpants locked in 90s Quidditch. Do you see. Cats wear helmets when the sky looks like the sky if the sky were the earth's curious haircut or a pretty NASA food mural impaling space with a mesmerizing hate-illusion that doesn't match its own red underlight. Do you see. The real Alice Cooper's strange noises match a good drum machine's strange noises. I'm a thumb-flavored Satan who will probably not deteriorate over time, says time. The Spongebob hordes clean off the sap from, without marking the, skeleton trees of Disney-fracked pussy time-clouds. Monsters force their own diaper-connections to a bacterial religion out of fucking town while becoming less and less receptive to the green gods infesting the gutters of OkCupid like 7-inch pixels that trellis the medical paradise of my chugging computer's interior soap opera like small hard dinosaur penises. Do you see.