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Wake up! You awake to cliffside turn-tables--mountains crumble into the divots of the record; mountain goats float upon ethereal notes. They bleat in conjunction with dusty LPs. Soon enough, cities rise from the mountain passes, urban ghettos spring up like wildflowers. Graffiti artists sneak out to complete works. The absence of pastels, traditional paint, and chalk is too much to contend with. They must use others. All tear open their chests and remove their ribs. They use marrow and blood to make art. The artists walk about countrysides. An afternoon of binge drinking and screwing whores. They brag about their achievements as they approach a gaggle of street poets. An altercation soon occurs, creativity flows. Architectural dreamscapes pop up from nowhere...