Very stairs. Slight cereal bowl. To Andy's delight, the misery in

prison is merely alchemical; the ironic avatar of humanity, through

the wormhole to Damascus (in a tomato), is data; like any law-victim

controlled by the minority report, Andy must eat cells on the

moon and dunk veins like a weary hitchhiker in the very Sync he'd

alienated, cooking shameful vacuum whilst Disney-delving missing

chill in a poignant severing, puzzling by GPS to help snuggle by the light

of day, pieces of information onrushing; amazing climax, abnormal....

the glib, retired astronaut expects the root of a color chart pulled out

like a chip crawling out of his chest. Intelligent air leaking blasts

of Utopian mash-up, revealed cave.... kicking, he fucks the

biggest television that breathes graphics ripping off their own

secret fabric; fucking a pig like a gross pillow, underlining penis

exhalation, with sound, all layers merry occult Broadway dulcet:

the moment poised to split ears; sticky overlain actor-screenshots

trapped in Comic Con melancholy with girl-folds in spotless

animation for the hilariously flexing pop-up lion's wicked Empire's

hidden camera's gnaw.... In the wings, edible swag enshrines

the central gazebo and encrypts peripheral rubble, disrupting dreams

into a straight pile into which Fassbinder's bicycle thieves sink a

freaking bell. Mood-soaked pavement Andy must therefore DM smooth

package folds for, for fear of a tree.