We’re after max efficiency, that’s what the gods
approve. These gods don’t communicate with us
directly only with our pleasure center—don’t
experience long wait times there—busy as they are,
they appreciate the well oiled machine, the machine that
says thank you ma’am. The machines can’t get drunk, neither
can the gods if it’s a match made in heaven. Lots of white—
fluffy, gauzy wide angle sheets of the white. I do
something with mirrors, not much ceiling to work with
after the carpenter quit. Well, he didn’t really quit as much
as they more or less turned him back into light. The grass was
apparently greener in spite of the heat. They drape your legs
round your tummy and carve suspicious slogans in your flesh.
It looks vaguely Aramaic and you worry over security
for security’s sake. It’s not like that and the uniforms mismatch
the boots. The gods promise us a taste of heaven.