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.