Spineless fakirs in the rear-view mirror throw wet kisses to trampolines on duty—we’re missing something gore to chew on, some nuts to scribble on. Welcome the wasteful destiny of slow-moving aspirins and impolite hedgehogs aiming at skittles with too few fragrances. Demand a new partition now, before the mule is blended with a fully grown matador under the pale moon and its agnostic surveillance of holistic residues. Spearhead a new age of wrestling in a noise-cancelling reservoir invaded by the rowdiest of singletons, clicking their fingers to the rumble of their empty bellies. Choose a smile, as horrid as it may be; the cuddling oviparous will continue to live in denial.