There was a thorny acoustic post-party soundlessness as the midnightmare jam session found itself flat against a wall of brick prisms. But this was no ordinarily functioning set of soundless moments. All over it was solid double-barreled rubber gasoline silence, and their fumbling minds filled it to the foaming glassy brim with fluffy burning garbage thoughts and cave cricket dreams. Violence dripped from their quaking lip-muscles in globs of thick mahogany bark to splatter on shaven bowling-alley wood floors, forming fractals of fungus and Cartesian graphs of the quality of fiberglass existence habits. Smoke curled in ghost breaths around the rotation of drunk ceiling blades. There were blank concrete walls with windows flown off to dance in the air millions of miles high. No gaps in this humanatural rock face. No entrances to be seen and one exit only.

Someone was running on the carpet walls. It was audible and terrifying, but it wasn’t worth their eye twitching. Only one object demanded their visual capacities to a degree worth humoring. It was a funnel of blue and black, promiscuously vacuuming the room of all bits of dust and debris and sloppy grape-skin and peanut shell casings. Clock hands bent around its rotating contours like I-beams of red hot radio towers, and bubbles of wolf-candy flesh were beginning to escape the faces of the persons who sat in brooding, rocking-chair amazement around the swirling vortex of nothing and all.

The pretzel tracks of train yachts began to assume shape out of the unfurling veins of moisture left in the atmosphere, and at the final echoing tick of the second hand possible to take them where they were not sure if they desired to go they made their decision, and they boarded those heaving locomotive monstrosities which bore them down under heaps of furry coal and across the border of the spinning cosmic volcano rift that had for reasons best left dumpster hidden spontaneously manifested itself in the midst of their grungy jail basement. As they first passed over the spherical spectrum horizon there were the flowing sensations of milk and flower petals swiftly carving soft terraces in the salt of their memories. Then this fume liquid was borne away by the vegetable winds of the underworld and their pasts stuck out like fresh lash welts, and it burned as nothing else ever could.

This was the gritty feeling that crunched underhoof for the remainder of their gruesome and mesmerizing tournament of adventures: rusty weather balloon memories deflating in purple sadness in the upper ionosphere crouched with painful potential behind drifting cauliflower scabs, all steamrolled into view by a scowling white blizzard flare held aloft without purpose of being so.