So then I saw the microwaves. And they spoke in eight thousand eight hundred and eighty-eight tongues of octopus with cell phones of bitter flowers in their cheeks. One day there will be translations of the museum, for now there is only the photographs of heart disease and funny attitudes for stickers.

I’d go to the highway but it’s really crowded. For some reason there’s never the sidewalk just blood splatter. And I wonder why this eel is sucking a fat old woman’s tit.

For the time being I will wait for answers while gently stroking myself and eating soup with my third arm. Surely there is another way.