Drop all notions of loving love woefully. Morse code splashes of white paint communicate nothing converging at a point always approaching beneath a blanket of cosmic soil. Swirling inward starry night sky rhythms of pain and feelings with quotes around them signifying signifying signifying robot rock rap ramboozle damn poozle full on fuck face way the main stay never intact while falling never out of tact neither, coursing through a pitch black tunnel shifting sliding construction paper atop a wood stained table at the scene of it all where the itch first began and began more when capital b Beginning blasting now hurtling between splashes of Morse code dashes and dashlings down further nowhere.