This evening I received mysterious and impromptu communique from a certain alien entity. We corresponded through a throughly disagreeable method: from the mothership a kind of morse code crossed with telepathic braille beamed from his spaceship which made me quite dizzy, and on my behalf, semaphore on my roof with road cones on my arms (those fuckers are heavy). He tells me he is well and his orbit intact. His interplanetary mission to take A and deliver it to B is much the same as always and still only tangentially important. The problem lies in the freshness of the recruits. They’re all stale. It’s been six stardates already and still only seen so many stars… Singstar cures these wounds with the “pornographic orgy” approach to the bonding which occurs only in deep ritual humiliation… of course I am not sure this is the right approach. I suggest that rare conjunction of the celestials which brings those of certain eccentric patterns into appropriate orbit. I still believe in the star-crossed. He sounded well and I sounded well, or at least as well as can be given the mediums of communication. Gusts of solar lumiere winds blew his spaceship back to Reticuli before he lost Team Champion Points. I couldn’t get the road cones off my arms and attempted to write my essay on Fabliaux; I think the broken mess that is my keyboard and the onomatopaeic death rattle gargle all over my screen will work out better than my other plans in the end.