Night Life In Twin Peaks

"Night Life In Twin Peaks" is a cut from the Twin Peaks music album. Or cd. Or LP. Or alblum as some reetard I know used to say. It's from whatever technology we use now. It's pretty funny. That is, it's pretty funny that that's the title of the cut. David Lynch throws the comedy into as many places in his depressing carnivals of fun and hijinx as he can. I'm surprised he has never called me to put one of my biker stories on film. I'm probably a little too upbeat for him. Which is good. Good for me. Otherwise I'd be hanging from a cell ceiling. HAHAHAHAHAHA. I guess that's not funny. "Night Life In Twin Peaks" is the long slow monotone of slowly changing monotones of low decibel musical instruments, and maybe sounds produced from the moans of artificially vibrated skulls that when you listen to its droning, slowly twisting drawn out notes and sustained slightly distorted chords the night life that you picture is people from the town all now in the forest, all apart from one another, each of them ploddily and lethargically and with determination mixed with indifference pulling dead humans by one heel deeper and deeper into the loamy, moldy wetness of the pine woods of a cold rainforest region, in the comfortable cold of an August night with the moon too morose to shine, the dresses of the girls being dragged riding up past their backs, and their underwear smeared and mottled with the cool moist flora and their bare white legs and white thighs catching the pale light of death surrounding them and brightening the scene to the level of pallor and ghostlight, one thigh off the ground where the puller plods drearily and indifferently along, the other thigh ending at the bent knee where the leg drags its calf and shin against the forest floor, the dresses up to the backs and navels, the underpants being slowly introduced into the seams and cleavages of their unholy butts and so called innocent vaginas but in reality troughs and sluices of SIN, the pelvises yielding and indifferent to their exposure to the dull unglancing eyes of the mindless proles of gloomy death and God's retribution for copulation and all manner of vulgar crotch related inappropriateness who are pulling them along, step by plod by slide by slosh by step. Accompanying all this is a slow constant "beat" played by a pair of steel brushes in the hands of the drummer, swishing and tapping on a snare, as if "Dancing In the Dark" were quietly playing in the backround in a far-away night club. But it isn't. It's hilarious. But you don't laugh at it. You get scared. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.