Sights are unedited and because of that there is an uneven degree of production. Swirling through the prolix collider, I sang to a fuzzy soft bird that my dribbling heart is purple. Mahogany was all around me, and I realized that I used to believe in myself but didn't have the right people around me. Lectures are given by people in their 40s. A will huffs at the numbers: qabala, pythagoreanism. Industrial cacophony sinks into the growling maw of religion. As the venn position opens wider, I find my shivering blood to be sent to a mail run in Oslo. But all I want is to make my way to Aleppo. It's too late to reconsider the growing beads that stab the pores in your forehead, because I'm left out of everything. A Darger, a Wolfli. Mental health is no longer a problem, because an eagle spread her wings and shrieked: KEL! Watch out! I'm after you! The story of the Loss of the Caul is made of neurons, which are made of batteries. No, they're like batteries, because physics is like jazz. The lobes of subjectivity become chalky and black if they aren't regularly penetrated. Their eyes go white and their skin goes grey as the march of history begins to sound like a Russian bath.