Liner Notes: What is there left to do but complain? For I have lain with lions and lambs and seen them ignore prams full of baby folk but I will not poke fun at funny men who have long beards and think that killing folk is not weird. Accept the sceptic tank of thankless sewage that swills about the will power house, a large container of all our excrement that was meant to be indelibly drawn onto the manuscript of scrabbled scripture, picture yourself as centre stage in some great age of intellect and try to collect your thoughts like noughts and crosses, for we all look back upon the buiding stage of modernity's phase as if it were a fairy tale of technological telekinesis, the key to being happy is to accept the kept nature of nature, a chicken feed feeling thats stealing all the healing powers of ivory towers and talibunnies for the sake of dummies and alimonies paid to a state operative, oh what a state, a stammer uttered by a grammer school girl, post op, old boy, net worker, who would have opted to be turned into a cow, had the NHS got the know-how. I'm clicking on a cuckoo capitall-ism, thats a mad hatter-ism of mod eternalism, a scooter ride away from heaven but you still must run the speed camera gauntlet in your vintage 911. The pendulum of good has swung nearly all the way it can go, its time to hang in space, like an antigravity space race and keep pace of backwards proclivity of anti activity, the big bang has has its day, things are sucking back to pin prick significance...