of forgotten dreams

the devlin against the muslin made the prince a pauper, a greasy lauper, a larper, a marker, a cat-corking podiatrist at the bend of time, no wits or hydrogen to spare. Where is Practice? Where is Prudence? Do these virtuous and wholly unholy parmaggianissimi have anything to do with the Cheese Shorts? I am not the man to answer such illly concieved misquestions or misquotations, but I don't have the answer. I am not the podgeblodger nor the neitherwhence agonist. For the trump of tomorrow is that the Transmogrification was never performed and never happened and you ask yourself...

But when confronted with the ladle or the placid lapidary Laputans might ensconce a tea soaked ditty or a lamuellan sandwich, of totally notable impropriety had against the wall the barest and bleakest sorceror's war of attrition, a kind of carnal askance: jettison the wainwright Tisdoremeo, we have averaged out the mettle of the average conductor: whereas the hyperconductor leaves much it has nothing and nonwhences such as Sal Arrhenga and Pisboroghshire l saw through the cloudiest most confused interstice of the lattice of the gods once, and I was not quite attentive enough to make anything meaningful of it: a wholly singular experience, and I came back babbling in typical mystic fashion, and I was a rationalist, or vaguely so. My memory was strobed with the lethargic forgetfulness of the no-moment, so for you all I have is an empty plate. I assure you that the cheese was most tasty, but those are empty words, words without the experience as a dry leaf to the cosmos...