Cluck-a-doodle Mural.

The alphabet. I'm taking in its versatility, one pigmented pixel at a time. The Nutbolt God looks at the bridge of my nose, and tells me to wrap my cowl tightly around the jawline. The cape has come loose,and I shake it off. I'm looking at the godfuckin' perimeter of an empty whisky glass. It's evening and the balls of paper thrown around carelessly remind me this desert is my house. The room looks uninviting and is garishly decorated, and there is that ever-so-faint whiff of eau-de-cologne. Where are the tin soldiers,eh? Jeff Buckley looks up at me from the floor, stuck to his Rolling Stone centerfold. And I come unannounced, unheeded to the virtual world where words become alliterations in cyberspace. Maybe I can do justice to the linoleum here.
I reckon Charles Babbage ran out of Di Nobili cigars. Hug me, you Simian monstrosity.