There is the dust and there is also the dutt. Effluent back bacon. There are the children how they howl, how they cry, the musty spectre, the grainy eyes. The salt in the blood, the frost in the mind. The spirit of memory, the service of squash on a silver plate and yet it is sunday, it is only sliver silver Sunday. Our Sunday - Our eyes. Fast foreign. Floppy free. The children, oh the children: how they howl.Frowl