Oh-o, somehow you’ve found yourself in the boot of my car, must’ve swung open and you simultaneously tripped and fell in Rupert, gutted for you I’m off up the moors with a vat of lsd and some horny terriers
While the above images sink in, as brain lisp anaemia further overrides your amygdala, the woofer you’re lying on cranks out
The roads have reduced to rutted lanes, dusk to night, bumpier navigation, the car biting down on looser surfacing as you feverishly reach for a phone which has somehow been misplaced
The car stops and the driver’s door opens. A bag of what sounds like a batch of chippy tools clanks to the floor. A voice rings out, someone familiar
“You should always understand your limitations, young man, make your subconscious conscious or be a slave to it as Jung stated. Channel your idiocy more creatively. A misunderstanding? Who, you and myself? Awww. You regret everything? For running your opium tea mouth like a twerp on heat? You’re very, very, very sorry? Is that smell petrol? Nooo, just backup for these remote, lonely barely call them lanes. How can you live down here? It’s like a hobbit warren. And those fuuuuuckin accents bruv? Doesn’t it get on top at times? Waitrose or Co-Op kinda gaff. Plymouth is close. I swear the entire city is inbred. Why ami naked? Funny you should ask
