Who is going to wear the trog suit tonight and pass out the crumbling soul cakes up and down a New England alley studio set, for the new mini-series that is running over budget, intentionally, to keep the crew at task? A hippie undertaker will trail the one who chooses to wear the trog suit, tipping their tall hat and dropping their faces to the crumbs on the asphalt. Their long hair moves as an affectionate pet would move.
Back at the academy, everyone but the one who chooses to wear the trog suit will enjoy their time alone in instruction. A blasted face of ‘teacher’ shakes into a transmission feuding with roadside interruption.
Hell in a monk’s cell…one by one they start to slip, the honeymoon sounds of the apartment appliances becomes a disturbance in their familiarity. The face clicks off. The face has been recorded onto every pair of eyes; it flashes red and black with a profile that might as well be Alfred E. Neuman than ‘teacher.’
sSophomore spontaneity — speedy, one year as opposed to fifteen years. A speedy one year of Golden Gloved work that takes its time in its delivery, does all the astral traveling and soul cake crumbling so we don’t have to
on easy street, we take ‘em in, this happy-hour-plus of easy experimental amusements — zounds.
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