Hammered again, fervour in a danced spirit. Only saxophone rolls suffer to stop the shaking hands. Addicted to a foreign craze: invented by a wearer of sandtouched feet. Bright flourescent beams of multi-toned light cast spurts of attention to the alotted corner, in which figures seemed to emerge out of their cocooned selves. Once geeky, glasseyed fools, but now, the meaning of systemated legends. The definition of ultimate coolness. As chilled as Harry's grandma's ice tea, where she includes halficeslush and also cubes that have been solid for years. Much like the beautiful jamming of the figures in the corner. Whom bears a significant amount in a bag of empty fusion? The empty fusion that subsides with the wind. And as the casements are filled to brim with legends, the bar begins to open its saloon doors to the awaiting knights. Clabouring for front row views, those same knights did so reach the bar first and left their maidens amongst the broody middleaged men, wearing stripy shirts and looking bored and perplexed. So the sordid adventure began with fresh phlegmed voice, new purple mouth wash lent to him by his polish roomate, 'Guaranteed to make you yodel!' ...or so it said on the label. 5 minutes later and strained vocal chords emitted a strangled goose-like sound... the kit commenced, as did the crayon, pocket trumpette next to the winded tweens that seem to beleive they were alive, but really zombies and...in fact, dead. An hour later and the air pulses. Wth liquor flowing, no one can tell the extreme failure of those in the corner... and yet, with months and months, and finally one year, they become a group so profound and musical, their brains get eaten by alsatians, and make the world seem orange or sweaty. Their polytalent, molecular structure. Cravings of another sort, feeding my advanced adrenalin system. As I drool in wait for hungry, chequered leopards.