Amazingly few discotheques provide jukeboxes. But jiving alone quits the party oxygen; the atonal zap of democracy won’t fuck up your dharma. Can’t you let the speakers blow out to cute, kind, jovial, foxy physiques — amazing beauties? Does the dancefloor apocalypse prefer to quiver cozy in your head, maxing out your broken jaw instead? Every memorized fixation has been quoted and packed into sweltering conjugations, though; nothing is secret about your secret language. Forget about book or video quizzes, too — no chance you’d judge the answers for sample exposition. Gone are the black foxtrot days of the wizard queen’s toxic Java hemp.

Hell, it’s empty, and all the devils are here for the quota; just banking on their wax zodiac, just waiting to be wanted. Impossible: nothing but a vow, an order of fucked-up maximalism and quizzical joy. Just keep examining every low bid quoted for zinc etchings, and you’ll know why: Klan Wizards can’t even juxtapose fascist phlegm with black quays. Look, if you properly budget expensive zoology equipment, just wait for the change and you’ll get it. My girl wove six dozen plaid jackets before she quit, and she was perfectly fine.

Nothing is impossible, in other words — for just about anyone could quickly produce four-point-333 hours of vexing waltzes, right? Or is the quasi-anonymous Impossible Nothing a fucking genius sculptor of waxy jazz divas? Perhaps he’s transcended maxed-out-bebop-jazz, plunderphonics-via-funk, vaporwave-via-Google-query. Quibbling about that won’t get us very far, though — about as much as pixie jizz.

Taxemenomicon by Impossible Nothing

Rest azure we’ve no quaint joke here, anyway; xhe’s a baffling psychedelic phenom. Something like zephyr-tight musical quartz with a jovial dexterity buff. Think about it: swerving thru dicey jams, quaffing bossa, ragga, zouk — then axing it all apart. Unless you pack my box with five dozen liquor jugs, in other words, there’s no way my brain is gonna be able to process this shit.

Verily I say unto you, thus: the quick brown fox jumps over a lazy dog.

Wanting nothing but another hexed Necronomicon of zany bombast to jolt sonic arrows from the quiver to the Kuiper, you’ll thirst post-music for the post-post-music of Impossible Nothing — from aardvark to zyzzyva. Xerox me that shit quick, you waltzing nymph; we’ll jive to the noisy cataclysm together, two humble pieces in a mosaic of sound.

You’ll be saying, by the end of it: “Sphinx of black quartz, judge my vow!”

“Zeus above,” I’ll say back to you — “my quick study of lexicography just won a prize.”