Garbled thoracic exploration bungled hardly with any fiberglass resin ironically, outside the mainstream’s inchoate whine, slapping children, slapping the wall, documented instances of rubiate scapular self-absorption and brittle murder, erasures of tiny photochemical vocalisms, some girl might save you, tell you what to do—or not—“Hi, I’m calling tonight, just because of the canker in the rose?” The tanker’s shadow, crows.