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Head to head rocketman, dead, with the baby blues of psychic freeze, staring holes in a shotglass amid the Belleville rendezvous, iconoclast in the stairwell of poor taste, Emile Zola's tipex, silence, suddenly romantic heroes surround voicing their alarm "why does it, why does it rain in our gardens?" Dramatic irony collapsing upon their new found existential neurosis, for a lifetime of cooking instructions, living like mottled pot merchants at church fetes, speaking in reflexive pronouns about 'one's house on the hill' and this and that-round the corner John Ed the Ted's parading his new squeeze in every dive up and down the town of faded grandeur, and Lorenzo the magnificent ponders over 'misunderstood' Machiavelli's visions and future promises which prevail in fractured fruition to backbiting moans of "Is this what we asked for?This is'nt what we asked for." Goes without saying about elliptical Orpheus in the university, talking down chaos and all which dazzles in common places. He dreams of struggling, wandering around, and boring people about the Nichomachean ethics and all, while Pinnochio gets nominated for the Nobel peace prize.