Samba Perkins invented crab fishing almost twelve decades ago. Shoe polish miracles wash over the cellophane surface of the fruit-salad container which rests ever-so-precariously on the leftmost eyelash of God himself, which in this case is simply a skewed teacup to the left side of the liquid camera which makes up the entire right half of the scene. It is nothing less than Angel Toenails which I find pressing into my shoulder in the morning. Where's the busload of Swedish tourists and the documentary film crew? And why isn't there a radiation hazard sticker on all the doors? Owls are at the door.

Click. A rapid stream of symbols is fed into me. I process them and feed them to the buss which whisks them away and out of my personal registers. What tedium! Mr. AngleCat is leaning further and further back in his chair as he questions me, so that after some time he can barely see me, which only makes me more and more nervous to the point that I'm actually biting my own fingers off, blood oozing out onto my trousers. My trembling hands lose their grip on the small key/pin which plummets to the metal ground, making a clinking sound which to my ears is unacceptably loud -- loud enough, perhaps, to set the entire alarm system off. I am surrounded by beaming professors.

So what barge should one push down the Mississippi of Life?