You guys are mindbound! You treat your mind like it's a little bit of
jetsam on the jerking sea, and if you let go you will die! You are the
whiteknuckled clutchers, rolling your eyes like cows swimming a river,
scanning the heavens for the approach of the harpies.

Seriously -- forage on the dull white wet fields of the dark gray
paper, paper like an overcast sky, overcaws, crows like writing on the
overcast sky, and cats meowing prey at the window, overcats today,
under the sky -- the sky rolls out like a player piano, and it's got
crows printed in staves on it, or written in invisible lemon juice are
the words, Stay put -- we are coming for you -- meanwhile, here's some
money to tide you over! You've got to shine the ultraviolet flashlight
on there to even see it, and even then, who's to say you really saw it.

It's tough to push off from that flotsam for the first time. When you
feel like you're a little speck of flotsam in a jet green sea -- I
remember dreamsign once of foamy green waves, almost like a lime
phosphate or a pistachio shake -- under a dark sky -- in a terrible
tempest -- but almost serene.

Open the fuggin gate, let the little fingers out for forage. Forage on
the north 40. While your mind goes to work, pumpin water, hoein,
weedin, &c., meanwhile, your little dogies can go get fat, come back,
deposit their milk, fill your pails full of wishwash whitewords. Cmon,
milk junkies! Pull, motherfuckers!

We are not the flotsam; we are the sea. We are the sea and the flotsam
and jetsam in it. I am Flot and you are Jet, and between us in a boat,
a seat and between us are the oars, so I'll take mine and you take yours,
and let's pull, motherfuckers, pull!