I once was a space raisin that was jettisoned out of the remnants of a high colonic embarking on a journey of transcendence and interdimensional enlightenment. When I first discovered pollywogs in my triangle, I felt that the sound of blue tasted much like old oatmeal that has crusted over from decades of political arguments.
As the comet plunged deep into the happy smile, I breathed a sigh of disgust upon learning about the mating habits of a two-dimensional cube. As it wiggled to and fro within the jaws of an apple core, I came to understand the shooting star’s true purpose. As a lawnmower of distinguished taste, I chose the path of lava and mental masturbation in order to coax my own intentions into thinking that the aardvark sleeps only when it sleeps. Cheese ferments between my cognitive visualization of the enchanted frog which bellows out a song of chartreuse ambiance.
Gone forever are the quarks of tin and the ember-lit moons of Giza pyramids. Replaced by the sandwich of oil and the tears of dead doorknobs, it solidified the cloaca bathed in the embryotic emotion of depressed lizards. Reptilian dreams of meat hooks dangling in the glossy veneer of a wax orange waxing poetic of a waning crescent transcends the fallacies of the checkered skin cell. Malignant static that coalesces within the threads of an abaya absquatulate an alcazar amphibology of the apoptosis.
Such is an argle-bargle of attic salt juxtaposed with pure intention to set two lovers souls in motion. Disintegrating as it goes, making communication a thing of the quantum quasi molecular poofball. And so in summation, the colloquial identity of a marker abused by surrogate mothers can only be explained by even more nonsensical psychobabble. Thus is love… thus is live… thus is Pop Team Epic