Your brain throbs, in peristaltic waves. Dr. Octagon keeps everything unreal, its voice in perpetual motion, from glutinous to gloating to dastardly to bedside to malicious. Instead of grounding you it uproots you, pulling you across into its world, moulding then massaging you across a series of thresholds you never knew existed. Kitsch is this ability to surpass essential belongings and rest in more superficial ones, to create an imaginary landscape through accumulation and camouflage, and to crystallize the continuous movement of life in the permeable disguise of fantasy. What you want is always out of reach when you can't sleep.
Insomnia is the wish to be immortal, granted by an ass.
There's a difference between a thug and a rebel. And the whole Bush family, from Texas, should be boiled in poison oil. In the marketplace, at least, rape is the natural order of things. And remarkably popular, too, on both sides of the exchange. People hand over their money, their lives, to DynaZauber or any other corporation, they know what they're getting.