Out under the yellow horizon, a door leads to the calm. Revolving, sheathed utensils seem to serve as a kind of prize — unwelcome, perhaps, but certainly foreign.
Welcomed thusly, the fear rises in strong jazzy throbs. Supposedly, a key is hidden in the pavement. I fail to find this fact charming. The royalty show no signs of life and I honestly don't know what they are.
Illusory machines exhibit a structure heretofore unobserved, vaguely heretical, intensely aggravating. So no one here knows amusement or follows procedure. But their eyes swell with lust regardless.