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How it flies through your head, and when you try to pin it down, it throws you. Under the sink and dreaming like a dog, kick kick at $60 per hour, and do you see the rabbits' boundings? Another proof of some golden ratio(n)[al]. The Brown Recluses sing to him in songs of disguise for their broods webbed balls, unhatched as yet, but coming soon. All in and all up in it what you think I need commas? It doesn't matter if you get it. It doesn't matter. Matter doesn't need equivocations, defending, or even definition, it just is, like us. The stores and stories are ours, but your belief doesn't make them true or any longer lasting than your brief flame, and all your genes chains as well; do you imagine that the maw believes? It just eats. It just is. It doesn't need stories because it is the greatest show in the Verse in itself, and we're just the luckiest (and worst) Peorian audience ever. Starfuckers looking down into our navels and other holes camouflaged as boxes while the glory surrounds us in every atom, and not a red carpet in space one; but more trashed orbits, and more metal between us, we got you, we got that.