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When I look up at the dark yellow cloud over the clean and bluish shadow of your post-modern techno-curly hair, I cannot but remember the same urgent time, the long and winding flow, or, should I say, the purple and sparkling flow of all these new financial organisms. You know, these long organisms, sketchy in his mouth, just when he and her, and Paul by the way, just when they were ready to assimilate the early language of her rocky street, the street with the pink dress and the red dead end. This is what I want you to remember: At this moment, at this exact moment, I could see the strong and green external random access of his open laptop, ready to embark on a long and Asian Imperial Journey into a pale-blue African tunnel with Yong Chang running on its roof, running straight into the absolute tactical media interface.

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