January 8, 2013

Spice Island Hal sashayed into the local beverage dispensary and partook of nectars sufficient to render him incapable of movement. Whereupon Portugese Nell Pasternak, entwined overhead in a complicated arrangement of chandeliers, brought forth the following tapestry of speech:

“And the flaccid tentacles of night descend

Entrusting our hope to a writhing dawn

Oh when, oh where, oh why, oh what

Can truth be leveraged under its oily sheen?

And what about the moth?

Oh, the moth and I despair.”

Silence followed. Then noise, silence, noise, noise, silence, noise, silence, silence, atomization, star formation, and a new chance for secret robots to make nice with eternity.

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