It's early in the day, when on your drive back home, you are ambushed by surprise. Panicked bubbles flee your lungs as devil's look-alike, the King in Crimson, pulls you under in the wake of Poseidon. It's a soft rumble strip spiked with odd whistles and pan pipes, as a jazz-smoked drum machine gurgles amicably in the background. You just smile.
You sprint up the staircase with murder on your mind. Your enemy- ye olde adipose.
Then you lie on a bed of opium in the arms of Ayn and dream of pussies and kittens.