Not the Slightest Truth Herein, Existing

It's a disco inferno in the many dimensions, and many are caught completely off guard, but not the wise readers of these rhizomed tomes. Time has peculiar messages since the Intergalactic Tacos escapade in which certain Wickidity practitioners exported Mind Control Horchata made with Honeydew and Milk of Paradise to the Milky Way, all multidimensional exports of the New Black Mansion. This is really about feeling some kind of dance craze coming on, recurring, whatever. It's a time for inversions, for recalibrations. Venus direct. There is this woman who makes a whole tiny painting on each of her fingernails. Each different. The remind her of different things. It looks nutty. It's also not uncreepy, since these things are, by way of connection to many rhizomic threads of memory, actual portals. It's ridiculous the lengths people go to. That's the fashion report. What will happen next in the many waters? It depends upon the shadow actions of the shadows of the creatures of Nowhere. That's a subject for contention.