Nonsense...

I will loom over you with promises of gills. I will pass the mic in fashions underexposed to the darkness of modernity. I will return to the senate and breathe a majestic note of fortitude into the effervescent haggle of the din of responsibility. Please remove all items from your feathered lungs. Please, replace all organs with exact replicas indistinguishable from their distant cousins. We will be arriving at arlonong in a matter of yellow limpers. Please do not regard yourself as a first rate citizen of the conglomerate elbows. We will be pushing your levels to a new type of destination. This place will be full of letters that are read to you through miniscule pleasantries. You will decide whether or not to believe in anything, yet you won't believe what you have decided. Your arm will turn into a lever and fling the cosmos into a recession that will outlast your favorite dogs and your favorite lesions.

You are a man of ill respite. You will never again be required to shave your knuckles, at least in the fashion you believe is correct. Please, lie down on the lesson, it is never going to be replaced, it is never going to ding a bell, and it is never going to bless the pharmacy.

This is a message of going nothing. Nothing is going to help you, he has nothing else to do.