Lacking several perfect stations, pieces of the children became a force of reckoning. Like a thousand robot roses, whose petals transmitted imperfect revolution, their broken ache becomes temporal agitation. In the bunkers, ghost rats assemble dream radios with which they ply the ocean minds. Back in the urban clusterfark, teams of assassins dressed as cheerleeders take out high-profile bankers while a dumbfounded media sits firmly on the thermonuclear thumb of broadly inhibited insight. Target fifty has a plan sure to rip the entire placebo a new ocelot. It can’t fail because it is a bomb that blows people back together. Imperfect stations, receiving dead letters from children underneath the veil. The flash, the disappearances. Maximum flagrante as the image reassembles in liquid divinity.