Golden Slumbers, she is already gone, a lazy stratified cloud of Sobranie smoke hangs in the dimmly lit studio with leather cream-coloured couches. Lipstick, on a gold tipped cigarette, stubbed out in the sand, says you were here Nahanni, the wildest river known to man. Who can navigate the twisting currents of this serene siren's ways? The sign of the Abscissa. We are in search of you in the desert of your desires. Who wants to live forever?

And so, nobody knows. This flower grows. And with Chopin, Tristesse in afterglow. Nobody knows, what sadness grows. And tears can show flowers we all know, here in afterglow. Some I did know. From seeds that sow, trickle down and go. Here in afterglow.

Only Nahanni can control the pack of white-winged horses with their nostrils flaring and wild eyes glaring. Only they, girded with woven fleece harnesses and ropes, can hoist the magnificent glowing turbine into the force field of the trans-optical generator, the Nahanni light armature embodiment. Resplendent mighty envelope of power. Rapture of the deepest magnetic sleep.

Mens' go on...tell us the rest...go on...we want to know...we want to know right now...we want to know because....

Thunder.................in the hills of Mars Alamo.