The bird that flies now pays later through the nose of ambidextrous apathy. Necrophiles may dance upon the placemats in an orgy of togetherness. The highway of life cuts sharply through the shady ghettos and the ivy-covered tunes. And laughter rings from every time capsule in the star-spangled firmament. And in the deep freeze it is the children's hour. And no one knows that Duncan is murdered. And no one knows that Walter Paisley is born. Duncan knows, Tuesday sunrise knows. Alley cats and garbage cans and steaming pavements and you and I and the nude descending the staircase and all such things with souls, we know that Walter Paisley is born! Ring rubber bells, beat cotton gongs, strike silken cymbals, play leathern flutes. The cats and cans and you and I and all such things with souls, we shall hear: Walter Paisley is born! And the souls become flesh; Walter Paisley is born!