the mist machines are twenty in number, eighteen for the salt-stacks, nine for the homeomorphically distended epsom bundles, one twelfth for the capybaras, and only one scant forty thousandth for the kappa-engines, this is not completely a summary, but it suffices for all practical purposes. Even the captains of industry leave much to be desired, and even they are only one fiftieth in number and primed for the accidentacalypse.
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a generous cavalcade of cascading fanfaronades drunkenly landmarking and vertiginously signposting matters logical and otherwise, a furious cross-crissed layering of meshes and weaves edging past here and pointing to otherwhences; in short, a distillation of the music of nothingness.
the watcher contrail in the sky (followed by):
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