The voices are about, tumbling through cracks of the cracks of the cracks of the cracks of the undefined palaces of spirit...spilling their effluvium, gain momentum off indiscriminate sensation on a landscape where clocks are mad trappings of a bad dream best left to scitters off wakings' thrust to the empire of logic and the matters that have no hand to mark false...the voices, beginning at the end of speeches through beginnings scrambling the middle carousals, narrate the films played backwards for the elders aging into babies blathering in cribs for their bottles of light and theoretical popcorn.