fred

It's fuckin hot man.
Let me tell you

The air is like oatmeal.
I am attached to the universal sweat membrane.

Detonation -- Nine-thousand pounds of explosives -- Unreeling the cord.

A crazed mexican scrambling in the desert dust on all fours. Shots fired into the air.
Bottles of hot sauce.
Ay muthafuckin curamba!
Everything is empty and exploding at once, on fire.

Looking out from a furnace.
The grace of losing concern
the freedom of destruction.

Yeah...
It's all metaphorical and shit.

We dare to drink in the flames of desire.
Yet the man makes you clean up the soggy ember remnants.
And it's only your smudged face, the coarse wet grit grinding in your teeth,
as you lay in last night's damp firepit,
to instruct you.

It is enough to make you want to take a shower or something...