. . .

sounds good to me

Remember, order now! Operators are sitting by.

Sitting around.

Meandering.

Being down and funky.

Listening to the voices.

The voices listen back.

We listen carefully at eachother in the hope of getting some convenient out of our perverse lifestyle choices we have made over the years of our lives to this date up til now.

But we seems to bes mores interesteds in stickings sss ons thes endss ofs wordss, and in just blabbering on and on and on and on and on with maybe only a very slight added change in the formula with the whole high school term paper ideal of padding out one sentence to 16 pages by instead of using one alternate form of description, or even the longerest alternate form of description, but each and every single form of alternate description that I or you or the high school student as the case may be may have thought of.

But at least I can hear the voices now and again.

It's uphill work, listening to the voices. Because you have to just listen. You can't in any way interfere, because if you do, the voices, instead of coming from Voiceland, come from you, and you're doing all the work. And you can only stop that by either snipping off the bit of yourself doing the talking and sending it off to Voicylvania, or by going back to just listening, which is harder, but less likely to leave you stranded on an ever shrinking Isle Of You.

It was going to be Island of View, but it isn't as fun that way. And a Piers Anthony novel is based on that fact.

Stereophonics are the wave of the future. Ride the wave. Purchase new everything today, and have it all in mixed doubles tournaments. And a Volkswagon. Just because.

Splints and a split strap, Stu spits.

Parasites are overcoming the inherent loss of self esteem. By reaching their internal enemas. And grasping them. And squeezing.

And salvation for Malde Hyde.