Fuel for the last rocket of mankind. You are listening to the last transmission of consciousness from the corpse, a radio frequency tuned to the ultraviolet of distant stars. Listen closely. The lips are grey, stained with nicotine and caffeine and codeine and heroin and cocaine, and the dead voice that issues from them speaks of the endless empty nights spent fixated over a bubbling bowl of crack, sucking the sweet brown juice from the ghetto pipe, eyes sky-blue and nailed to the wall. We make a sacrifice here in the basement abbatoir. All hail the God of Pain, all hail the virgin goat strung up on the crucifix, all hail Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies. Publicity. Phillistines. Public Phonetics Suck. The problem is within the self, yet the self is consumed with the environment, as though the environment contains the self.... Which it does. That, in a nutshell, is screaming. yo, welcomes to the e-street, yo. Me an' my homes Scotty-ice beez chillin in da crib, stone col' mackin on da Cheez-its and shit, homey. Yo, a shout-out to my bitch, Yolanda. 'Sup, G? We in da hayouuuuuse! Alas! My consiousness has left the realm of sanity. The cilly willy has left the north pole. What-ho! Foresoothe and La! This is the shit, bitch.