The harmless wanderers reverberate and lose no sleep over the smallest pebbles of their dreams. The harmless wanderers have no plans or remorse or cold, gemstone privacy to protect. They let loose 48 rounds of pyschodelic, loose-cannon-fodder into the muddy, smoggy world, as they cavort surrepticiously down the mine-shaft streets of no-return, rainbow coloured shopping-bags held daintily in their perfectly manicured fingers, party
-streamers tangled in their green hair.
“We are comrades in arms!’ the surreptitious loose-cannon-fodder cry in happy abandonment, “and we bring you good news”