I‘m gonna run a car key across my own thought bubble, draw some concentric circles on it and open fire, put a helmet on and tackle it, amputate the brilliant white frontal lobe, twist it into the shape of a stupid poodle. Then maybe it’ll have second thoughts the next time it suggests the secretary has gained some weight.

Or I puncture the smallest bubble that hovers nearest my head with a butcher’s hook and hang it up. The thought bubble force fields fix standard TB orbit, I’ll land on it, take a sample, that’s the mission. More like a bathtub dough mould, the temperature’s nice, dip in your id.

Downtown Cairo: stuck to the end of an apartment block a giant Maggi chicken thinks an Arabic thought, in 2d 40ft off the ground the grating paint snow flakes onto passing scalps, but it’s all dead skin and geriatric atoms. the speech bubble crumbles into a thought bubble and sooner or later it enjoys the legacy of an archeological fart fluerbububthaah! And void.

Let the Bings! and pings! and dings! drain and rot. Make an incision for thought letting, a puddle of wrong and a bucket of sawdust to absorb chaos. 

Some observers in the town think I’m trying to whack a fly, not at all, I’m slapping around my thought bubble until it blubbs “you fucking half finished fucker you,” and the thought bubble is forced to bend on its one big knee and is beaten by baseball bats then kicked and levered into the waiting grave like a milky J. Pesci.