He watches the avox pass by and can't help but stare at them. They're like ghosts, he thinks, in that there's a sharp disconnect of them from everything else. It is a sudden effort not to crush the glass in his own hand.

"Come now, a brother speaks of sureness most legit there is of no being unreachable with a jam preformed proper. It is liable that occurrence of personal nature has born unto they a block of kind or other. Our giggling gods would seek of thee and thy not to bear arms to our brothers and sisters, and lo', Messiahs said, we ought bestow upon them what gifts of peace to which ourselves near secular remain privy."

He recites, rather than really speaks. Such is the Kurloz way. But sure enough, his eyes shift and he amends, "...though speak of it true, thy self has found reception current to be of a nature most deliriously un-mother-fuckin-chill. It doth be so, there is subtle stifling to the air here... the elixirs do not taste as sweet... there is no sopor, no, not even nip, and so poor sleep will be of me surely... I sense a wish by others on myself to be so devoured somehow or mother fuckin other by all to whom I speak. There is much for which a mother fucker remains unprepared. This is a slaughter of whole other sort."

He doesn't say aloud that he is scared. Though, his pump-biscuit hasn't truly stopped it's furious, frantic march since he arrived.

"...Thy dost give righteous remembrance, there are still miracles to be uncovered yet."