uttered commentary

And in the mode of tomorrow, we find ourselves striving and seeking a potato chip of the future, a questionable taste that has yet to be whittled into a full time profession, a tympanic oscillation that predates the foredawn. Was the magic chicken not made from stone? What other less sundry offerings were made at the stone temple? And who piloted that ridiculous mackerel of a temple anyway? Edwina Elvengthar? Sam Stainstein? Or any of a cast of characters more unsundry than adroit. With manuscripts being thrown at each other and anthems and drinking songs being sung, I would rather make the decision myself: but the mylar corncob that is my life at the moment prevents such ease and such lanky facility with rapid and autonomous changes: I must consult the scrolls and am beholden to processes and prephets and other assorted (and unsortable) marginalia that first: I can have no ambiguous opinions, and second and perhaps more importantly: I find it hard to get across the most important of opinions that I think I have because many experiences that I think are the most important are also the most fleeting and the colors and history that belie some of them are the vanguard of the dismissable for some: I rely on a tasty few to make it through to the next branchforking.