It’s groovy to the 9th baby. It’s grooverotica, like the clanging of anonymous cymbals in the darkened halls of a convent, like sacred mysterious snow coating the floors of an orphanage dormitory to be discovered when he chlidren awaken. It’s groovy like the transdimensional tinkerings of a reptilian girl-child as she plays with her unwitting human fetish-dolls, moving their tiny minds and hearts and souls to the rythm of a lost drummer banging hopelessly away at a kit that’s not there as the youniverse spirals past the icy windows in a waxy distorted shattered dance that always threatens to, but against all probability does not destroy the aforementioned cymbals that bang with constant anarcho-clatter and drag the sisters of G-d from their beds with a viciously real, metallic roar.
I wrote that and it’s groovy.
LC