Teddy bears and semi-hard dicks and kites and bullies and the school nurse fanning an under-worked imagination, and emo pianos and thin soporific voices and let's take a dreamy vacation and vomit on the floor and piss from the bridge and break shit and look stupefied for years and hold a green apple and sing like little angels and get all video camera saturated and digital camera misty and forget where we are and follow cul de sacs into nowhere where cyphers are drowning and do it again and rape the celestial Princess of the 8th and 9th grade and learn about rich parents and here comes that fucking bad music machine again and I know who Philia is and here's a bunch of Sengoku era flags waving o'er the fecund fields and too much is never even close to enough, and Splendor on the Turtle Beach and gizmos and comments and story-time tales of sad little britches Blue Cat being suckled at his first Tori Amos concert and lousy crap thrown all over the screen and easy invitations for disdain and Catcher in the Rice and psychotic ultra kids in melancholy Dialogue-Land, kinda all PG like a mythic warning cartoon by cell painters huffing Ether, but upside down and all around we go, almost as if we're awaiting some pubescent Monica Bellucci in a sailor suit skirt to skip through a dark tunnel immersed with imitative Bjork songs caressing her soul in reverie so deeply she cannot see the Big Bad Frenchman's weapon, and we should give kids the cameras and especially give them the sound department because they don't know who the Beatles were and they Linda-Linda-Linda-love-it on Netflix and Letterbox'd and Entertainment Tonight and please stay home on your computers and cell phones like lightning rods attracting cyber snippets of submersion into sexless sex, thoughtless thought, deathless death, and over-wrought action from whence confusion is foisted as Pop-heralded insight while it 400 Blows for 150 minutes. Bliss Flower.
