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Raving Luna Sea

Willie Vassal lacks sleep.

Howlingmad Happy

Well, that implies he misses, needs, or even wants sleep.  Years of dancefloor punishment have hardened his body to the task at hand; his is a steel resolve fortified with chemical reserves.  He absorbs each thump and converts into a kinetic frenzy.

Stinging sweaty fullmoons peer over the salty human sea which rocks a cosmic rhythm.  Willie embraces purpose with open arms; his visions of perceptual motion perpetually sway in an ocean of light.  Willie’s wavelength arms ride the pulsing stobe like a midnight surfer firewalking the crest of liquid flame.

He dances to cure cancer; shakes to feed the poor.  With every turn and bend of this clubbing angel, a harp seal goes unclubbed.

A patient snake eats its tail on the turntable as the dutiful DJ keeps the records spinning.  To stop is to die, it is to starve third-world babies.  In defiance to the world’s call, Willie Vassal’s mental moon dance never ceases.

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