Nightmarish

That's not an exaggeration of the hippies' skills, upstairs there. It's like a beterrored pursuit dream without reason or even word, only the raw horror of pursuit. By whom? You never know; all you hear are the savagely arhythmic drums of the remotest jungles of an obscure planet in the Trisomy 21 system, on which you landed after your ship's gustatic capacitor burnt out. You are the only survivor. There were others, but those who lived through the crash did not long last the pursuit. Now you are alone, you and the native Honkions on your tail. Assailed from all sides by the ceaseless and horrifically random percussing of the natives, erratic beats drowning out the nigh-silent rhythm of your weakening heart. Without rhyme or reason you will die, and the last vibrations your eardrums transceive to your brain, as it suffocates, will be the chortles of the years-stranded antimaterialist Volvo pilots and their copilots exhorting them, Right on. The real tragedy is that given a couple more years, they would have grown out of their little phase and grown into their trust funds. Such is a toss of the coin into the circle of life. Sometimes you land in that unlucky region between a quarter of and a half of pi, and there you are.