drunken vertiginous endive-dime.

It is a supreme act of an arrogant logic to suppose that the central bank is an cultural engine, sweeping and weeping distant grain husks and convex hulls of compact and comatose sets all in various directions: how much striving, strewning, thewing and miscalculating can one perform without a compass: with a Langlands sextant and other more exotic arrhythmia makes the master plan a mistaken maze: an offering made in some dizzying maze of incomprehensible proportions and paradoxical steam engine lined copper cities and some meritorious redoubling of one's resistence to the message of the Cone People. I was not an attendee of said conference and indeed my misdirection laid waste to the transdipthongous sheaf-curling thylakoid-traversal that was planned way way in advance and never had a neologism or a shuck-starrowingly misprecise attribution of cleverness: it was a conic dithyramb that had the master messhuginah geffer chain and then we wondering how many of the thyme travelers had actually accrued relativistic credits to the Bank of Altair (not a reputable bank), because our structs and unions were rabidly chaotic chirugeons of disaster that we had to ask our attendant cleverscapes why we were lost at sea.