It's an all-encompassing repetitive persistent whooshing sound, indecipherable but unmistakably written by Beck, blotting out all voices of reason, with a footing seemingly level from a distance but perceptibly and irretrievably downhill, and a weirdly horizontal gravity pulling one toward the distant-yet-seemingly-close Bama/Clempson- colored fruit at the far end, said fruit being held by a thousand palm-leaf-only-clad virgins, offering nothing but themselves and the promise of immediate stardom...
Also, unexpectedly devoid of run-on sentences.