"Whereupon," Hiro drones, digging through an inside pocket of his labcoat to produce a cheap bic, "I suppose some kind of hope-fairy moulds these -- with the aid of eidelon-dooie -- into beautiful shit-sculptures of awazzawakenned weeul." He's hard to hear at any kind of distance; the words are a mumbled garble. He applies the flame to the tip of the blunt, puffing on it as he does so. Apparently, it isn't burning evenly enough for his liking.