Shoot Self.

Stars slip slippers on, magically. Ambush a little spacecraft. I smell a lot of flames on each star. A fly sizzles in a dystopian color. Nuclear poop cracks cracks in suns, because light is backward-facing. LaForge slips a skinny cat over his head, sees. The cat is made of tin, and while raping the blind man's eyes feeds from an old Hustler fashioned into a bowl, or just a flat screen, ripples of colorful mold. Which can be poked, with affection. The tin cat does (poke it). Unlike normal hugs, Facebook pokes can't transform into gymnastic danglings. Internet smells of enlightenment. Cooking smells of BO. The way a torture device spoils fish, spam arouses my affection. The small skin cancer I am fighting is oblong, flat, phallic, huge, sand; the Street Fighter décor curls infinitely. My pants feel one-sided. They are. There are matching skeletal dunes in Dune. Harsh sand, sun, sunglasses. Dick-faced worms. Hovering, time-traveling pussies. The sandpeople don't really believe in “ambush,” a little, very blue-eyed boy once read (on the back of a bottle of “Ambush” spice). Their motto is “shoot self.”