a kind of sugary ooze slicks these midaugust dense-sweat agonized self-shoeboxing summer grease is the word wallows, one that only a burning beam refracted from an all-concrete environ melting dead desires into complete jello failures of all formely-working vocabularies and appeals could appreciate. Out of this wispy pudding of joyless crumb-scatter some kind of acetate spore has percolated into my emails and is haunting a blind man's larynx way way out on a mossy pier, and not having any other way to answer to it, I send it your way. It's a song that a friend of my nephew's babysitter wrote. If you listen to it, you might envision a room in a bland building with 95 degree fahrenheit smog permeating every corner and pore of its windowless sound booth. At least that's what I think of when I hear it. Some kind of wolf-of-bitter-disposition tearing at a dead rabbit's heart. Or no, maybe not: you might think its the most beautiful sunset you've ever heard crashing headlong into a glitter factory.