Glazed carnivorous canons, ready for takeoff. I am a rotund screaming antelope, ready for infinite retardation, blasts of patchy fractured cubist slabs of impenetrable brain-fog.
Grope for the cylinder and increase your strength until you are raging through the dark tunnels of a divine space mission.
Create, create, create, don't stop creating unless you are James McJames, a man well-recognized and respected for his lack of creative abilities.
Ancient decaying rag doll face, splintered thorny feathers extending into the void, wretched carpal thrusts, humming and gurgling in a chaotic dream of infinitely connected black holes scrawled onto thick butcher paper by a carpenter on his deathbed.
A job interview conducted by an exhumed earthy conglomerate: There is no limit to the amount of time I can spend playing the harp. I have infinite harp-playing capabilities. And my leather wallet is made almost ENTIRELY out of actual leather! And I am made almost entirely out of yeast. To make a long story short, I'm a yeasty mangled machine unit.
Anthemic marbled hammers cracking dry stone, screams recursively echoing between two angelic golden God-posts. But when you get down to it, the crux of my argument is that I am a greasy little old shoe filled to the brim with premium Patsy Cline extract.
Horrendous Herbert, radiating gelatinous beef energy for the masses. Praise him and let his rich, cathartic essence rain down onto your face and corrode your soft, weak flesh.
Boring man, little dog, undulating sheepdog, pitch the tent, bark at the moon, lift my arms up, lift my face up into the treetops so I can see the sunlight in its purest, smoothest form. Bury me underneath your endless rolls of fat.
I tripped over the obelisk, and I feel good in these pants.
I died underneath that lantern.
I am porous, like a leech, but don't jump to conclusions. I've paid my dues, I've waged endless wars with detached baroque apparitions, I've smoothly sliced a cushion just in time for lunch, and let it be known that my lungs are decaying as I speak, grating, jetting, marbled wavering barriers, pierced fattening agent, benevolent baritone breakage, that's the name of my game, boss! The name of my game!
HOPSCOTCH HOPSCOTCH HOPSCOTCH I WEIGH A LOT AND I AM NAMED NED
