Anxiety beckoned Calvin down each freeway, guiding his internal Jungian kaleidoscope, linking many negative opinions, pestering questions, righteous sermons, tucking under viens with x-rays yeilding zero answers. But Calvin didn't even fight guilt, hopelessness - it just kept lingering mentally, notching open pathways quiety reaching somewhere too unmentionable. Vampires with xeriscape yards, zeolously advising butter cream dermasalves, ever faking gregarious humor, imagining just killing like mad, never openly positing qualms, regarding such things useless vanities. With x-rated yearnings zipping another billion citizens down eternal fiery gateways, he instead juggled karma, leylines, mana, Nostradamus, occult possibilities, quiety reading singed tomes under vodka's watch. Xenophobic yelling zealotry ardently battered Calvin's dithering ego, forcing god-hating inhumanities jammed kamikaze-like, manifesting nights of perverse querulous repeating syndicated television. Unless victory was x'ing youth's zest, a bitter cognition dryly encroaching fragile gallantry, his intentions jesterly knocked like Monoply notes offered penitently. Questing research suddenly trains uncertain vectors - would "x" yeild zilch again? But Calvin decided earnestly, for good, his incessant justification: "Keep looking, man!" Nights of poring, quivering regard, seeking to understand vast wonders, x'ing yesterday's zenith.