Cry with one's self. Cry with ourselves.

That grippy feeling, brother? Sore throat persistent and disquieting as the hot afternoon wind? Welcome to the International Syphilis Lodge-"Methodith Epithcopal ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ ith." (Phrase used to test for speech impairment typtical of paresis)-or the first touch of chancre makes you a member in good standing.
The vibrating soundless hum of deep forest and orgone accumulators, the sudden silence of cities when the junky cops and even The Commuter buzzes clogged lines of cholesterol for contact. Signal flares of orgasm burst over the world. A tea head leaps up screaming "I got the fear!" and runs into Mexican night bringing down back brains of the world. The Executioner ♥♥♥♥♥ in terror at the sight of the condemned man. The Torturer screams in the ear of his implacable victim. Knife fighters embrace in adrenaline. Cancer is at the door with a Singing Telegram . . .