In a dumbed down fleshy version of the memory of your sanguine complexion, you convey a trace mineral out of your lingual papillae that wirelessly communicates with the Invisible Lord of Outer World Station, and gallivanting to tell your mom, you come across a hairy tortoise with a greasy knuckle in its wrinkled craw. At the final jurisdiction you will not be judged so much as politely smirked at, it crispily whispers in an alien dialect that you decipher with an ionization chamber and a Cassell’s Taa thesaurus. Walk away, the reptile threatens as the carapace twists the fog into a gif of Gloria Swanson’s ostentatious brow rising and rising and.