Assasin playgirls on a power-mad orgy of hypnotically-induced shadowplay/pictureplay, 24 frames per second; the whimpering, mewling kitten of a love ghost pondering the travails of a dismembered heart.  Why do I keep seeing these same pictures in the newspapers everytime I close my eyes: rotting corpses of the ’50’s movie star couple, still conscious after the car crash, mouths eaten away by maggoty corruption, but still smiling their gummy, toothy grins?

And I’m sick of these school dreams, hunched over in an overcrowded elevator to the fifth floor of a department store college, suit-and-tie benefactors of professors selling themselves in toothpaste commercials.  And the blonde junkie cooed with the bad, bad inferiority complex that causes her to go overboard with the outfit in the collapses capillaries of her naked left thigh.  Her sorority sisters contemplate her birthday suit of a navel as it turns a whiter shade of pale – pale blue to be exact!  But she comes out of it after being slapped around by the house dick, laughs and asks, “God!  How long was I out anyway!”

“About two hours!” explains sorority sis Sue.