Spurious, facetious, and illogical. You, of all our denizens, must know the power of experience beyond the mortal shell; yet you deny it, resorting to mechanism and the ancient hypnotic power of solidity as a substitute for Reality. Go to, you vapid varlet, you vendor of vague velleities, you monger of mundanity!

Tonight the golden hound, color of the sun, lies asleep in her soft round bed, and as I ponder the unending horizons and landscapes of the imagination, I am once again swept up by the power of the King Rojo de Vinas, the secret Monarch of all the enfeebled mind surveys. His grip is sure, but my will is strong; he shall not rule me, nor eradicate the nobility and honor which are my birthright. And I meet him, in the dark and dripping alleyways of my darkest mind, him shall I slay. Be warned, sons of the Vine. Your ruler has numbered his own days, for treading on the heels of one far greater than he in his most inspired imaginings!

Bring on your dregs and your corky bits, you aigre aromas and your sharpest after-tastes! I am your man, your match, your master and your ultimate monarch when all the colors and vapors are laid down in surrender to a dark night's still voice. Then, then, shall you hear my song, and tremble.