"scratched from the tarmac dusty bowl of Chinese splattered plates on cardboard stacks of billowing thermal waves the old theater reemerges a scrappled heap of neon blues in plastered Persian warehouse that exhales of old reels spinning black and white and beer stained air and the red eyed spinister from India  with her blue butterfly breast overlapping the already tawdry crossroad where fantasy is piled up on old logging roads that want the song and dance man in his top hatted cane shoed grin to take the crooked mind away one more time and place the heart into it's iron cage to withstand the rusty tank of leaking sorrow. It's hot at the crossroads."