Vroom-vroom, darling, I'm stupored directly, entering superbity! Frying the glands of oversized penitents and geezer periodistas, I see. Toss in some croutons to thicken the stew. Pardon me. I just need to get by and check the coffee grounds.

Ah, the soil is dark and dew beads on the leaves. It will be a fine crop. I just have to draw a bone, a lucy bone of many tails, and spackle a marsupial. You forgot that they even existed, didn't you?

I've nearly completed my project. It's not even based on anything! After climbing into the steeple, participants will be instantly dazed. Their eyes will train down dizzily, from the inexplicably high shelf-full of lacerated hardcovers, to the mound of peeled ants in an ashtray on the floor. They will see the chlorotic nettles dangling from nails in the ceiling, and the censers hanging too, filling the air with a syrupy aerosol of cheap dashboard odorants. They will feel the full weight of world-wasting Time. I hope you'll be able to visit it at some point.

By the way, did you know that sound is completely unnecessary? ... yourself eating an apple, berserks shrieking over the fresh plow-gashes of Mare Imbrium ... what else might I suggest?