Desires are tasting yellow today.  And a beer off in the distant future sounds like a fog horn.  The number ‘1’ is a light turquoise that glistens silvery when contemplated from an obtuse angle and golden if the angle is acute.  Time is feeling kind of spongy with seconds oozing in and out of spongy pores when squeezed.  Most peeps I’m encountering are displaying low buzzing auras asymmetrically inclined.  Some of these auras are smelling funny—like toast that has been burnt and then smothered with butter.  Even words themselves are not exempt from synaesthetic torture.  The word (not concept, or actual instance of) ‘torture’ for example, tastes hotly pink and is purring, while the word ‘butter’ screams ‘3’ and tastes (the word, not the actual substance) like a new Barbie doll smells.  The number ‘3’ itself is a bit too bubbly today and, if touched, would taste like gunpowder or talcum powder or maybe just powdery.  While war seems inevitable, inevitability is currently the color of the shadow off of a small weiner dog chasing its tail in the noonday sun.  The sun, of course, is drunk again and feels green and coolly excitable.  Meanwhile, all the girls look gooey.  And sex is an aroma wafting far above my head.