Collection

I taste consumers lodged in the esophogus of collective us, vomit slicks ensue, urging the children to remark "mommy, look at all the pretty colours" just as a vagrant dog smells and then subsequently urinates in our energy reserves as confidently as an oil CEO announcing 4th quarter earnings at a news conference followed by terminally ill journalists vomiting questions all over the front of the oily man dress followed by a sense of dissapointment when the consumers learn that they could have paid to witness it.

The puddles turn into lakes, the past participle of urbanization, and dilute our reserves until the nation faints, the collective bloodless drain another victim dry.