It wasn't as dark as it was humid, simple and corrosive, eating up his tender melon, making his sighs escape him.
A lovely plane, round in shape, cold, digging deeply into the frozen fat of the eye, as the time starts making its lovely noise, repetitive, introducing the last of the ghosts, the one he should never want to see, the one he yet every Sunday evening, when the days seem cold and corrosive, and turtles spread across the room, turning and twisting rabidly on the lamps, pictures and corners, and the lovely greenies clutch his brain with their immense antennas, making him feel the sweet noise of plunder and destruction of innocence.
"It is a lovely trip one must take at leas once a week," he reminds himself, grinning, grinning grinning grinning...
