Party Like It's August 6th, 1945

There was a man who went between the living and the dead and the divving and the lead and it was a Friday, a glorious shining Friday, but his car was dirty and written in the dirt was a cryptic subconscious alphabet, one that when sounded sounds like something Delia Derbyshire would produce if her machines malfunctioned, sort of like the modern avant garde glitch music, but only with aged electronic equipment, the sort that hum, the sort that hum that infernal analog hum, that hum that sounds like a million nanobees buzzing in their nanohive making nanohoney, sweet nanohoney, too small to harvest, too small to make into peanut butter and honey sandwiches that would later bring nostalgia to a girl as an adult, longing mildly for the sandwiches and childhood, yet lamenting mildly those days when you would have the flu and such illnesses that come, and when they come they are pure torture, and they often leave as suddenly as they come, sort of like a hobo that squatted on your land for 2 days then went on the train illegally to go to Pittsburgh, which would lead to more wandering, more wearing down of the hobo's shoes, more scavenging and looking for Lucky Charms boxes one day or two days over the best before date, meanwhile you absolutely hate Lucky Charms, even with milk, the overload of sugar surpassing Cap'n Crunch and being, unlike Cap'n Crunch, disgusting beyond measure, and you asking yourself why there are marshmallows in it, and thinking, "magically delicious" my ass.