It’s 1985.  Christmas morning.  The kids are opening gifts, and dad’s got a tape recorder sitting on the table by the lamp, recording what’s going on, along with a fuckton of hiss and noise.  Mom thinks everything’s going too fast, and the rest of us won’t truly know what that means until much, much later.

Merry Christmas.

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I create things that don't make sense. I don't know why, because they don't make sense.