Ho! Here we are at Petri Dish or... as I call it Dr. Fauci's Cereal Bowl! If you can see it under a microscope, but... rather wish that you hadn't, it 'might' show up here. We've a kinder, gentler Visible than it was of old; as we like to say down at the taverns, when we talk about our Glory Days, our salad years, back when none of that stuff ever happened. Well... it DID happen to me. It's just everyone else that we're not sure of. Name of that tavern is The Way-out Machine, only... in order to get out, YOU HAVE TO GO IN.
That is not Way-out as in... Far Out! (dude). It's more along the lines of, That's the way out. (dude). Now that we've gotten that sorted, we can move on to whatever that is up ahead there. You feel me? Heh heh. No. I don't talk like that. I mean no offense. I just... don't... talk... like... that. I got plenty of street cred, BUT... I... am... not... street. I did time on the mean streets soon as I could walk. I went to prisons and the other lockup-lockdown facilities, and I was poor all my life. I still am poor. I just don't talk like that.
The reason I mentioned that is because there are plenty of people who do talk like that BUT are not Street. They're just trying to pass on The Street. I did not and do not have to do that because I had to face down Bad Leroy a time or two, AND... you want to talk about bristlecone vibrations? You know what I mean; when it feels like there are thousands of tiny needles pricking you everywhere, like... how it is when you go to Street Acupuncture or like that.
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