drink sand, you vasty bloatfish!
have yerself a sandwitch. (ride that cackling hag, ya!) or pick out the sand from betwixt yer teeth. here’s a pick, Congregorio.
i hear those molars grinding sand to diamonds. blastoff soon, you daysold friends, clutter up the ultiverse with periodicals and infinite patterings of tapping munkeys. (yank their tails: you’ve got Faust. box their ears: you’ve got Proust)
feel the happering histological paramours groping in the cold closet. hear their rustling heels pounding on the stone. or, contrariwise, turn your pages and hope that nothing happens….
I can feel my brane wasting away like feekill matter in an our glass
yipe! didn’t know they put THAT in there!