"And [they] transformed into ethereal synthesizer blossoms, that sound like the sonic imagining of a particularly hazy-eyed, pastel dew saturated, John Hughes melodrama--stuck inside a Philip K. Dick universe of angst ridden androids troubled by thoughts they were never programmed to have; broken animatronic beauty queens who lay atop giant scrap heaps hidden away in silver forests, crying chrome tears, looking for meaning in the star maps of their night skies; and loners with vesicle piscean signs in their eyes that refuse to fade away with the passing of time, who aimlessly wander vast neon expanses consumed by seemingly unanswerable questions of the demiurge."