How scrubbed-up clean

are our spirits, these loquacious silver gods who glide at some safe distance above their rank and proletarian bodies. Foul though fascinating landscapes they are that they traverse, besmirched with armpits and fruity genitalia and belching gobs and those impulsive blurting sphincters in whose hot updrafts they might ascend and soar. O, but our spirits are so lustrous, so hairless, so advanced in their glass-bottomed flying machines which run on just about nothing! What quick and icy notions they have that slot into one another like the tightest clocks, and how they lick their lips as they gaze down in anticipatory glee, for though they would not themselves wish to rough it, they certainly will peep through their bedroom windows, each a jiggling voyeur of its own ardent body when that body has chanced upon another, and the pair of them have knuckled down to their immersive work.