The collective madness of all the nuts and bolts that keep the sun together, in the near distant past and future subways will become the masters of man. All of man will see this and will look back at this book as the warning that was never heeded. Their greatest crime (the subways) will be forgetting grammar and stealing babies without any sort of apology or reprieve. This piece sings guitars to sleep, the right kind of guitars built for only left hands and black waters that never had seen or known light. Written in a language of the olden, only hills and rabid neon will understand it at first. Read with incense and melting ice (nonmelting ice will not handle it properly and walk away). Reading it will send you into tomorrow's yesterday, forgetting that time really is an unapproachable mother fucker. All accounts (for all intents and kind purposes, not the unkind kind) are truths full of lies, flies, and desserts of vanilla taste. The same desserts found at the bottom of a fudge cup waiting for spoons to fornicate through them. Somewhere through the proven middle, knights will emerge and sever table heads that were only good for singing and nothing else. At the bottom and end of it all, only dishwashers will survive, and once they taste the water, they will think its lime and never spit it out. Finally, only fires on the thirty-fourth or above floors will survive, and in the morning, all will be forgiven, and you would be able to move on with life, the universe, and whatever follows. All mistakes are intentional.