Four flesh balloons betting on a few aging amplifiers. I hear they listen to Here Come the Warm Jets on loop all day and plot mail fraud. I hear they stole Dale Crover’s car and sacrificed it to the weather near the Los Angeles County Line. Some few things, at least, are certain: Wand hears ghosts. Wand prefers serpents. The Sun is the mother of every fiction. All phenomena will be consumed in alphabetical order, but desire will recirculate ad infinitum. If all else fails, Wand will just devour more hands.
