SLEEPING WITH BJORK more developmental than experimental. The whole experience is bright purple playdo and cellophane. He'd carved "I love Bjork!" love hearts into every tree in southern Thailand. They talked about reconstructionism and Buddha.
<<Probabilities>> in the playroom and her cheeks were rosy, they were crayoning smiling suns on the limestone floor, <<sequences and fractals. Freedom is as easy as a florid dirndl and just as cheap.>> She spat on the floor, smudged a whole constellation of suns with the phlegm.
<<I know what you mean>> Cassius Croon said. <<I blame it on big business.>>
<<That's your trouble>> she was getting nasty here <<you blame. But never do you act. You disgust me.>>
<<I blame it on Rupert Murdoch>> he said. Then he realised the whole point of the demonstration... and spat on the floor.
She squeaked hysterically and tackled him into the puddle. <<Rupert Murdoch's the devil>> she imparted, rubbing his nose in it. Bjork would know - she was one of the many creative artists screwed in the EuroHollywood megaventure. She rammed crayons into her skull to give her a demonic profile.
<<Imagine if he was>> Croon said. <<Evil incarnate, brainwashing us all with his crappy films.>>
<<I'm sure you'll protect me>> Bjork said.
As she rose his right hand in the air he could have hardly felt more unsure. <<But what if we're already brainwashed?>>