He plays that saxophone like he plays that clarinet like he plays that harmonica like he plays that whistle. Pop goes the whistle ball, rolling into the dark tunnel. Maybe they left one bulb on. If I’m seeing correctly, I see fog machines. I see strobe lights. I see VHS fever dreams. I’m not sure I want to go any further. Any gentleness in there has been deformed by savage junkyard techniques.
The toy crane’s coming down, grabbing for you. The boy at the control panel has a pocketful of quarters and all the time in the world. The muscle of AI technology is hindered by its low response time, which gives you time enough to jump out of the way of the crane’s claws shaped like spit hooks of guardrail damage. Imagine your hero: on the final stretch in bug-eye aviator lenses, dirt leather, and sparkler hat switching on the turbo letting out a yee-ha, not going faster than the speed of sound, but fast enough to distort balance.
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