Put your finger to the portal. Look! All the rising corn! There, beyond the estuary, the white sails of the herring fleet!

Thunder unbottles to my specifications.

With a gentleness, a lightness of touch, the blue narcissus blooms for my purposes.

Watch me in my whisper basket, river-rafting the Arno with a photograph of my Love Knievel, screening the cold calls of shorebirds just doing their jobs.

Any Warhol could say that.

Sausages are parachutes for the mind.

He's scared of balloons, alone or in bunches, thin-skinned, scraping against each other, squeaky bulgy bulbs of emptiness... They scare me too. But I don't care.

It's strange on paper, but in the air, online, it's a bonus, a boon.

The dreams are bad but bingo! I feel alive.

He says nothing for a while. In a way, the silence helps me see: This is a human out of time, with serious baggage and bad habits; What do I do? I eat a sausage and go back to bed.

A pack of howlers approaches from the east. I post a panicky Instagram. L-dog, with the help of a certain Spectator, deploys yellow and orange balloons left and right. The Spectator, unforgettable bystander, chooses not to pass-on test results. These are the same test results that, years later, you in Self mode outrode.

On certain foggy mornings the lute song of the Moth Wolf is transmitted by Genevieve to children of survivors… We land the THE on the far side of the trees. We thrash through brush into the compound. We collect Five Eddy Fawkes without so much as a peep.

We got Likes off the charts for that one.

Hear the sample’s clatter, the fast steel clap.

Ladies and gentlemen, in your Song Forms, I note a certain fidelity to Ethos 3, the growth hormone, activated by a dawn chorus of crows. Swap out the fog, refine the hexagonal ovarian cyst. It is possible, at night, to recharge via Ox Carrier Six. Five Eddy Fawkes says, "The eighth ambiguity, thorny to touch, is rooted in seven of mine.” Input ovarian pike‚ satisfy Sonica, let us relay Five Eddy Fawkes to OYO for THE treatment.