WE GRIMACE, THEREFORE WE ARE

Like the countless cruel-belching flotskies who sit in the countless unferned and uncedared bars of this one-horse universe grimacing into mirrors, not so much at themselves, reflected in those mirrors, but rather at the idea of those mirrors, and even then only because no more palpable object for their grimacing can be found, and even if it could, well, fuck it; like-them, the Rolling Stones make it extremely difficult to perceive their—I borrow here from Dear Meg—nice sides.