Time, that nonspatial continuum in which events occur in irreversible succession from the past through the present to the future and back again and which is the single effect of quantum physics most apt to discombobulate Algonquin holes, passes. Since Otto Lummer -- yes, the Otto Lummer -- last gazed into the argonosphere, rendering half of it cryogenically invisible, 876 months have passed, enough time for a family of Burmesian dust mites to completely consume the body of a 1925 Mercury Mercurochrome, however on the planet Zontar, only two xenotides have elapsed, during which time native Hive People can barely get their pod shoes laced.

In the nearby psychosomatic foothills of the Lammergeier Plateau, time doesn't pass so much as it circulates, although its normal flow is often circumvented by local antisocial refugee composers. Stubbornly clinging to a kind of arachnidian lifestyle, they act as neighborhood blood clots, stanching the progression of the now to the pluperfect. With minuscule personal input, their petty compositions begin life festering in an aleatoric stew, devoid of purpose. After a while, they tire of Rube Goldberg-like chord progressions and dubious harmonic leaps of faith and take their free-will leave through the amnion escape trough. Soon, many of them have lives of their own independent of their creators. They make the chat show rounds, garner the occasional musical award, then fade from view as the novelty of their construct wears off. Most are content to lead quieter lives, to retire to the countryside to root for grubs, raise their larva, grow a permanent stubble and, in due time, be filed in a music library under Miscellaneous. Other compositions, however, take the abrupt absence of notoriety harder, and are placed on a suicide watch. Convincing these compositions that their behavior is inappropriate is like pulling teeth from an underwater goat hen: it's possible, but in the end all you have to show for your effort is fingers with their cuticles pecked out.

Equally inappropriate is the following dream sequence, which ran unexpurgated early on the morning of the 6th. Your obedient hosts, Kalvos & Damian, are in Manhattan en route to an interview. Near the East River, the southbound street on which they are piloting their Bazaarmobile suddenly dead-ends and turns into a New York Transit Authority pedestrian concourse. Driver Damian pulls over to the left curb where four men in white lab coats hold large cream pies the size of pizzas. The pie centers have circular labels identifying them as "corn" or "rice." Damian rolls down the window, but before he can say anything glib, one man smacks him in the face with a pie. Moments later, Kalvos gets his passenger seat cream pie comeuppance. Damian stumbles out of the car, looking to retaliate. Struggling to wipe the glop from his eyes, he kneels near the entrance to a building on the left whence the men appeared. Suddenly two of them help him to his feet and lead him inside, where other cream-pied people are also gathered. He's helped into a barbershop-like chair where a woman gently rinses the goo from his face, and another explains the object of this event. Unfortunately Damian doesn't remember what was said, although he does recall it seemed to make sense at the time and had nothing to do with the arcane ingredients of an ambrosia salad from Insane Ridge, Kentucky, which will be explained at a later date, along with sphnagum parsons. Does it make sense to you, dear listener?

We hope so, because the remainder of this 164th episode of Kalvos & Damian's New Music Bazaar is based upon rational postulates amniotically suppressed within that dream, the flambeau oriange of the blood-clotted world, without which we would have little reason to pass the prophetic microphone to the cream-pied countenance of Kalvos.