Hey, well, here we are again, late for work and parking our ASSES in each other's FACES for pleasure, well for your pleasure.

If I grew a few more inches I could reach the ceiling of blood, pushing past the pussy boils that are begging for lancing, and there stands mother always looking over my kneecaps and ranting about Geraldo, Luke Eisenstien and the Decline of Best Western. And as I would be grewing, I would take the time to feel my bones knitting together, pulling new calcites from the marrow, which, by the way, is working OVERTIME, you could jam a carrot into the marrow of your brain-bone and come up with better blood, let the pathogens say what they will, there's no tomorrow for the new YOU.

And really, as far as ceilings go the blood one is the best in terms of RESILIENCE and its very quiet too, like all Americans abroad, because, is it ashamed? of what it hath wrought, like the very American you will be when you set foot on French?, well, it's more of a ZEN pain that fronts like a Motley Crue video, something delicious but searing and if you've been to bed you know that what I'm talking about is natural as far as the eye can squirt, and that pain can be a relief to those whose lives are filled with meaningless pennies of unelastic nothingnessed boredom, pain is a freedom from the trough that keeps dropping deeper so your neck must adapt on the fly and elongate to reach the oats which are rotten at the never-ending bottom anyway.

You think of troughs and ceilings that forever recede and you sigh "is this another Borgesian" "PHANTASY" or is this something that's real from the heart of grace and beauty, or did this spring from some ecstatic well-font of esotericness, some pulpy zit filled with magic and chrsyanthemums? Does the brilliant mind seek its target as doth the arrow? or does it seek as a mole the mysterious treasure that may or may not exist in the dirted pit beneath it? Do moles seek treasure? Does an arrow fly? Or does it move in a frozen wasteland filled with Brian Zeno movies? The questions of a warped mind meet with the answers of emptiness in a martini-drenched pool party in Hollywood and there we rub our genitals against the best of Carrie Fisher and, oh, I don't know, Meg Ryan? Let there be something ILLEGAL, let there be leitmotifs, grandiose resounding canons that repeat your very name in the night, rebounding against the towering giants of the silver screen, let your name bounce off Humphrey Bogarts gigantic penis, let your very spirit and its attendant bones come off Bruce Willis like an immense Shake and Bake, let the popcorn kernels of your neverending boundlessness resonate upon the galactic brain pan of Admiral Halsey and the Olson Twins, LET LET LET IT ALL REIGN DOWN ON TINSEL TOWN AND LET YOUR OMNIPOTENCE BE THE CROWN THAT ALL OF STARDOM WILL WEAR IN ITS FINAL HOURS OF SEX AND LIBERTY AND DANK DISGUSTINGNESS THAT WILL FOREVER PERVADE THE BALUSTRADES OF OPERATIC CINEMATOGRAPHY AND THE CRIMES OF PERVERSELY TWISTED GENII IN WHOSE VERY HANDS THE FATES OF VARIOUS UNIVERSI REST IMPATIENTLY AWAITING THE BLINDING BOREDOM OF THAT NEFARIOUS NEVERENDING NOTHINGNESS!