About to burn off what you are inside or throw away no doubt amounts to living inside out to get you very far, where under that eye sanity rolls over in slow motion like scum across the ocean top of inanity, not rated total but as too much lock spreads into weirder mush than binds you in a mortal rush whose lives are just as few, with tides like news to Libya that drag the answer out and back to life obeyed at last on track on the Riviera, communication flares, the lives drop out:

I have tried to make us communicate, but it is hard work for me, sending you the same thing, communication, a rectangle of mackerel, over and over and over again, delighted that you are so bored of pretending it has a meaning, ecstatic that you are so exhausted with getting it, and thrilled that you are so faintly exasperated past the point where you are ready to expect anything you get ever to be intelligible or match up to a relevant dream still of intimacy, in the cupboard under the stairs or among the vibrating restraints in the garage with the loud-opening door excitingly shut, where in our noise and silence we set out for here again.