…queer finding a pubic hair in your dimebag, thoughts of inhaling some wayward strand of deoxyribonucleic acid, a bit too close to cannibalism for comfort. Wonder how that got into that, some mexicali transporting illegal goods and labour in a single caravan to kill two birds with a stone, those poor sodsouls huddled against hulks of raw hempflower to gnash their teeth against its resiny flesh in bouts of hunger agin their stomaches leafily filled, a salad for the acids and balm for the weary neuron and terrified spirit? Tsk. But it’s a bit too light colored, too caramelly to come from the smelly pits of a Guerrero denizen: an absconded monarch, this day’s stolen heir, or perhaps, some fair-crotched somebody whose story will never be known by any in Time’s eternal rush? No, Time is a sittingstill block of cheese filled with the machinations of maggots going about their half-blind ways. Tsk. The way things are going, there will never be one wrong in the ways of looking, and may there be no edges to this box o cheese! O, how the crotchety light shines off its beige amplitude! Should I even be touching? Should soap suffice? Pickingredup. Ow still hot, oh heck it: cl-cl-i-ka-fwmpwoosh!