I should very much like a snort of Adderal right now. How delightful would it be to blow congealed blue powder out of my nose for a few days, to grind my teeth helplessly despite the water I might drink, to experience distate in regarding food of any kind, and to have great bouts of wonder at the spectacle of ants like Euclidean points turned into a spectacular diagram of Maxwell's equations, bursting from all points onward to infinity, scrambling over the tiny grooves in the pavement, getting bogged down in the dusty pebbles, staring blankly at their perverse existence with a quietly posed question on their rapidly twitching mandibles, for crushing. La.

Behold speaks the sign, and it is too late to heed its message in any useful way. It really says, "you are a jackass." It was designed by Russian surrealists in an ironically ironic statement protosting the Danish pop invasion. They trusted in numbers and were disappointed. Freaky Wedding by a good five paces. Bland up to his ears, but a good runner. Reports have come in from Athens, they've decided on the shape of the phantom letter and it looks something like a mouse on fire. Twist, kneel, revive. Then suddenly a pair of disembodied sunglasses, pure reflecting surface and no frame, floated over and crashed the party, drinking more punch than most men can without becoming punch. The guy in the overalls gave them the nod, and they danced most appropriately, given their social standing. All were delighted. The clock struck three, and it was time for the night watchmen to poke his head in. The flashlight struggled to get a grip on the mass of vibrating slime in the south-east corner, then inverted and blinded the poor man, who was advised to mediately seek a doctor. The draperies combusted, having previously been dipped in sulfur to celebrate the occasion, and the Spaniard contingent rejoiced with great plosives and weirdly accented vowells. The mailman threw a missive through the parlor window; though a great partier himself, he didn't like the looks of this scene; and the letter sank diligently, aware of its duty, and landed slyly and precariously on the least crowded edge. "Check it out," cried Lady DeLaune, "he's barracking." And indeed he was.

There were, however, a few more vapid guests, who had never heard anything played without a hot mama beat, and they missed the reference entirely. The soirée ended nonchalantly on an unharmonious chord.