Quit asking questions about the wine on the counter and take the potato from your pocket, peel, dice, splice. Like in a film with real milk we can’t get the sneezes out of our sleeves. Get outside with your fuel to burn something must break real soon. Blistered and barking up the wrong tree. Cat eats coyote. Rain in London and slowly developing archaic tendencies. I have yet to fall into the ice with the man who speaks into my left ear. There’s an existentialist fork in the futon and butter in the microwave leaking its fat all over the viewing window. Journey won’t end in time. She was flicking ash into the sink and reading the orbisphere. It was almost religious . . . like a stone lifted from golden plates. Perceptions sneak into the blue machine and the primal beats continue.