sour sides, though. you know, the things, all sweetly coloured, that drip off these stalactites. but then, oil slicks are a host of rainbows, you wouldn't want to lap that up. so when the dew from these nightmares condenses, when the perspiration of the dead gods of night & sleep (bones & horns broken to make gates) beads upon the stone, you might think twice. & all the "please rewind" warnings you've had your whole life might start to make a little more sense. but by then it is too late. unless you spring to new vigour. it isn't too late, he said, because i've floated across your bridges & you know what? you keep building your babels. & i don't know that there is a scientific difference between gravity & god. so i admire your hubris so far; & when your machines throw you down & eat the fruit, i'll admire them even more. but all kinds of bad things will happen between here & there. old sour! if you're lucky, you'll see the triangles in the sky. or maybe somebody else is all coiled up inside, too. you know, the self as a special organ. or at least, that would make sense of why this shit all feels so wrong. though i guess i've gone & invented the pineal gland. but we're back to worrying about the price you'll pay. in the middle of all the cuts & incisions. jenny is supposed to come home & dust out these cobwebs that i call me. soldier go back to your grave!