I grew the non-ono-machine
from nano-tiny UFOs leaking out of my skin.
When
morning hack broken, my tongue licked the UFOs of the skin. And I spit the
micro-UFOs down into a washing-up bowl of red plastic from where the micro-UFOs
(together with my spit and a pair of old green checkered slippers) converted to
the non-ono-machine. The machine looked like a red plastic-tree rotating round
a hand. The machine was falling in love with microwave oven intestines. The machine sometimes mumled “non-ono” while it produced plastic-meat-leafs
with hieroglyph-like signs on them.
