At the island of skulls a one-armed man washed his clothes in a bath of cocaine in the downstairs room of a house in Berkley Square. Meet each other overseas: dancing, and setting fire to unwary pedestrians who swallow poison ivy to die and understand madness. They thrive in the crimson carcass that feeds on Ariadne’s blood while she holds the fire of the darkened moon and breeds the wolf with innocuous style in a feathered incubator, just like in the good old days when all soldiers were nothing but shepherding buffoons in leather trousers, and their crooks hanging by the clock under a homeless cock, waiting, for the next train to Wonderland will be tomorrow night. So stay awake for crazy dreams involving egg-like diamonds with eyes of sugar and fire.Aniano, Merl, Nikos, Patrick, Paul, and Vangelis
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