After washing myself clean, I had breakfast with the sea priestess, whose sibilant esses are escaping gas from the sea floor. The sea priestess lays on a bed of nails, twenty-seven lead soldiers at her head. The sea priestess is escaping gas. The grass that grows is turned to gas. Gas fired from a gun, herbal hydrogen. If it goes any faster there'll be an astral disaster. If it goes any faster there'll be an astral disaster. //