Overcast at last, the symphonic sound pebbles of the Sinatra-matrix
trickling down like a rockfall down a hiking canyon. Cans for the hikers,
Sinatra cans for the hiker communication, singing into the cans on
strings, Frank Chan.

Perfect blue notes hanging distilled in the air, air of molasses blue,
the cold dawn sun stuck to the hills, affixed to the hills. The sun
escaping from the thick morning like blue glue.

The world aware in all of its lobes, in its every hungry molecule. Hunger
for penetration and sensation. The hungry world, its hungry members
grasping and trembling and sucking attention out of the sky.

Hungry glowing meatballs of the sky, sucking the sky dry of the molasses
the sun was stuck in this morning. The sky full of amber in the
afternoon, Amber in the afternoon gazing at the amber sky, a yellow
light, caution...or speed up...either way, the speeding sun slips down
the butter sky faster and faster like an egg yolk slipping off a buttered
pan.

All the latest gear. The creamy dream gear. The world runs on dream
gears. People require gears. The reagent gears crush agents one by one in
their gigantic chemical teeth. Chemical agents slip in unnoticed among
the Regents. The board of Regents — see, they're all sitting on it. A
long 2 x 4.

My world measured out in wooden Playskool blocks. Spending hours making a
ship on the wooden floor out of wooden blocks. Long amber hours on the
amber wooden floor in a room full of toys.