It is not what it seems.

By the end, it looks like it is a transparent giraffe, but the neck looks too short and the feet have claws. Without any feet and without a head, it's eyes look filled with liquid margarine. But where has little Susan gone, except down the tunnel to a plastic future: It is not a future.

Starting over doesn't loosen a tongue that does not exist, yet amorphous sounds sometimes escape the vibraphone even when the discussion is over.

Company is known by the company it keeps, and yet the point may be lost unless one looks past the world of pancake batter and french fries. Trusting a voice leading you through the later end doesn't make you crazy, even though the Red Coats say so.

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You know what it is, but it has no meaning, it is often repeated but never understood. It falsifies it's own argument, yet you will still stare at it's cover. Sometimes one must look closer at the thing, looking below the mirror's surface.