The illustrated pages are contained between opaque tracing paper on which is printed the letterpress text.

Weary ex-patriot, do you not hear the cry? Of your motherlandgrab, soldier of fortune favors the brave, wind blow until you are no more half-a-mind Cobain headache cure cleaving trouble neatly like a stave.

The easy way out of the street's speculative dreams, gallop the land- eyes cold saucers full of sour milk wean from me the eternal teat

Scatter me slowly from my tomb, my prison, my skull fulsome and budding with the soft fronds destined to be nettles of discontent,

The adders of memory glide with impregnable armor; (forged in the heat of the moment) through this Gordian knot, this labyrinth, of electrochemical heredity given free

Where is the string, is the Minotaur me? Daedalus surely brings Death's key.