“Death Dubitabilis is sunny walk down gentle warm dreams over soft breeze. And then it all turns to shit. Dropped the really big one. Slowly led by the hand to give crushing sounds of reality pulled down up apart on insistence from gravity’s violence. And we still can’t find where we parked. The lousy future gets worst every time it’s here. Stuck in the Death Dubitabilis. Got no more cigarettes. Light years in puffy awed hell.”

-Belt, faux pox alergant