Unfinished opening-ending one-chapter post-story (A could-have-been-a-novellette proseminipoemette). These light bulbs had been prying into my viscera for an indefinite amount of time, heirs to a condition of slavery. He is intralatched onto mental representations of potential fiancées. This guy, Bulbe, a multi-talented lover’s spat colourist and indoor farmer, a coffeine-impassioned Hamlet-like rotting youth, loped down the streets of a relentless domotic Paris. Penniless, needin’ luv so bad. Bulbs have been planted into his kind jovial heart, alimony to the ones who will come after him. Chance encounter with young attractive woman and so on. Another scene. Anon came the graphic procurer whose nose was scheduled to grow into a throbbing TV-daimon. A severe bleeding thereafter etc. B. taken by surprise by pimp’s hair bulbs generating infinitely. B. declares, “A born strangler is thine hair, o bloody (BE) damned (AE) criminal” (monologue, improvisation). Smothering seas and oceans of hair’s breadths. Cut. Salvation of the starlette implemented. Two bulbs screwed in later. B.’s right leg capsizes consequently, a wedding ceremony lurking in his girlfriend’s passion-fuelled electric system. Happiness never seen before, deep-seated potatoes growing now. His nutritious soul. Final scene. She and her sorority friends in front of Fontana dell’Organo in Tivoli. French fries are thrown at them. We don’t see the faces. End.