if i were to wring enough quasi-profane made-up words out of gleeful humid dreams of sex & death, plug them lite brite telephone switchboard style into enough slow-burning phrases, bathe the phrases in a tub of wmd-quality incendiary haterade and then twist them 'round my hands and spin them like fiery helicopters in the middle of a parthenon of fluorescent-tube columns and a triangle of shattered glass... i imagine that all of it might accidentally coalesce into a magick spell that summons a pagan gnome or maybe a flamboyant demon butler to read & answer emails for me and generally do my jealous bidding. i'd settle for a flying mutt in a pirate costume. i'm not unwilling to compromise.