awaiting the underavatar of north dakota

Arrha! Tertungtissima and Blalange were standing at the precipice, cares in hand, ageless angels masquerading over the void of the world. Collecting sulfur trophies and notating various odd enumerata of streetcar transfer functions, like a dodging dithyramb at the edgeless poet's latter bereavement, yoth!, did such men declare profound purposes in mad manifests and nail such denouncements of reason on the nailboards of burches and cosynagogues (keeping in mind that if you add the square of a synagogue and a cosynagogue you always get unity), such doldrums of patience did not reward nor did they require the constant attentions of Marga and Prisdroop and the crellenations of the underforbegotton. Gudge and McMhorty didn't stand a chance when the shallows-blossoms emerged from Sansalsifar, and I didn't have a boldkeep. We might have wandered for hours in the grassy knolls of Suud, searching for our own dram of the finest gargartive mustard. Tertungtissima said "Playlast the dearmuffin! I was a cardmobile", but the hour had already passed and Blalange was osculating the idyll. Zohogaia Brentherfleunk and the shottoths of Misturea had difficulty acclimatizing to the thin scents and reedy mixtures that composited with the peer pressure mushrooms of Brottondale. Heh. Like a clean cut ass-minstrel perorating around the downtown climes of Berrutagth, or a claimaint reading the will of the Lhere of Bvuungmatar to her kin after the wake, the crescent odor contrails above the swamp leave very little to the miscreant imagination, and for which insalubrious petticoats might wander aimlessly against the sky, one mote in the cosmic network, once lost, now found, now declared as the King of all Arquipa, might be the only defense we have against this symphony of sense.

Tertungtissima started for the night. Did you too?