Vertices for Cleomatra (or waiting for the Oedipaclypse)

Zozz zuzzens in priority porengo like the coffers of the metamards and the patagards of Rhilla had nothing to say when the twellers were twain. The Zillidgy-Zen isomerases were all in a tussle, a tumble, a rheological mess of ungarnered proportions and even strangers prepartum glee, or ghee, depending on how much clarified butter, a clarified better butter, was used, oh the agar, oh the broth, oh the chicken, oh the masala and the Masada and the walls of the vaporous mist ribbons that encircled the castle. The many-splendored impossibly colored experience at which everything neither ends or begins and discussion of emptiness itself is slightly backtracked and underdone. Where is the grep command, I ask, expecting no answer, but not needing to ask the question -- is this a PDP64 series computer -- does that even exist in your world -- I don't know the answer to that question and am not exactly likely to ask it most of the time. I am a tulip, a library link editor, a debugger, an iridium wrench, a rotaxane, a boron hydride, ask me later when the rains have come and the storm of millions of phone calls has made yet another one of those deep funk cosmic party lines that are relatively impossible for J. Random Hominid species to get on (would you really want someone saying "sex sex sex" when the concentration of gallium atoms in the next cubic parsec of space is something of serious concern, and when someone takes themselves less than seriously it's always with some type of intellectual rigor, or rigorless, or it's just a box of socks)