A dead star. The Pulsars and Magnetars beat in multiple dimensions above as concertina, softly burning the delicate brain membraine of Wayne Rembrandt, psychotherapist for the President. He tilted back to carefully examine the sky, before swiftly moving on into the glass domed helicopter. He turned to the pilot. "My mother was right, I want to fuck Fraud!" he shouted. They both laughed and drank wine.
