Sharpen your thoughts, late stage fructose-cows, the barriers of your prison shall soon crumble before you, like an atomic crab shedding its black-glass shell. Peruse these very pages and feel the itchy tingling in your pineal gland, worming out of your brain at the promised visions dangled before it like a roast beef dinner before a tapeworm-carrier’s posterior. Bring those hammers crashing down, in bracered arms, onto the walls of your corn-syrup abbatoir. Free your mind to wander the God-granted plains of imaginative Elysium, and allow Aegeon to be the kratom reverie that deposits you, naked and derailed, upon the windy plane of THE NEW WORLD. Do not be afraid! Soon the factory will close. HOLD YOUR WARHAMMERS HIGH!