A vision of soft pink emerges from the depths of the imagination: flowing, silky locks tamed through the miracle of balsam creme rinse; bronzed, firm flesh draped in the satin folds of unstarched angels' wings; tingling torso, unshackled and shimmering, beckoning you to touch—softly, gently so as not to bruise. The screeching voice of a meat-hungry raven is stilled, leaving only blessed silence. But alas! 'Tis only a dream. The voice will again Pmerge, Its rasping, feline yowls once more causing children to cry out in their sleep and adults to jam chopsticks in their ears to escape the pain. Oh, that this too, too frightening sound should melt away...