ITEM #0107: Since it was born blind, crippled and devolving, as the offspring of Saul and Saudi's constantly breaking necks, Aleppo cannot change its spots, nor its dots and dashes, nor even its ladders for halos_anon, divined anyway by consensus realities sacked from Europe, where the human hand rests upside-down, mechanically groping the highrise Purdah of its own silicon henge. Observations terminate at its very gaze. In the blackness is the stopped stunt clock of Lilith, but attenuated, as Quang Duc, finally extinguished by FDNY, using spermbank Pepsi Max. Simultaneous and connascent, Russia's pyrrhic bomb breathes life into a slue of commemorative victory vampires at the fat wet fart of its own Disney detonation. (Prior to this, only a drive-thru funereal ur-tradition of science and scenery; all cut, paste and meaningless, merely for the IRKr, for the SIMPLE VEXATION.) Why these contaminations of caucasian chalk and cheese, then? Why these hits upon poon? Why all these anal reverses towards the slit backside of the Sun? 'You die for nothing', one voice says, 'but only after you survive a helium Hindenburg, as Pye R Pollyanna, as a date-donkey, as fodder for their slithers of preset. Your brain-drain is itself recalled as a sexual minority, devoid of natural offspring. In the real world, for instance, Birmingham, Alabama, arranges its official dead as mistletoe, for the spit and the abyss. Best love your headstone while you can, and for its own sake, as a fortress to forget'. Another counters with images of politicians pushing buttons. One sequence depicts Hyksos the Dysteleologist, with his trouser oedipi, singing to shipwreck the word's last faithful volunteer. The middle-ground comes in a surfeit of sizes, all called road-maps, via carrier waves with rotating teeth. Meanwhile, Haemo-Assad, a kind of chutzpah of baby vowels impaled upon a CGI swordfish, twitching like a flag in damp fog, a fussy-eater of only depo provera, makes the sign of the cross over a valley of bones.