A clown has browned this area. Carlos “Bunsen burner” Danger's
science experiment conjured up a lifeless bicarbonate of soda burp,
by contrast. But an alleviated wormhole is still a ramifying wormhole:
IBM-noir innards – electronics as arcane as Bolivia, as heavy as New York –
purveying McDonalds as abstract as a virgin. Personalized resurrected fudge
compressed in a mold like the amygdala on LSD, pushing out through
the Martian layers of Batman's svelte rubber. The object of a tick's addiction
now singes its face. Sometimes an opaque coil strays like a black pube from
the otherwise transparent disease. Moldy pollution eclipses the hellishly bright
depression in those eyes, but soon settles and sticks to the floor.
Suddenly, in the clearance, you're being fondled by a plant. Face to face with
the plant: pain's beautifully fractured travels mirrored in the plant's sweaty face.
You two's two-headed mouth temperature; as warm as washing your hands
after the massacre. Nursing the bottle's cork remains demeaning to the blue
sinkhole of divinity. Groggy suicidal falling blocks are more widespread on
social networks. The Balrog's jumpsuit is sunshine-covered and its crotchdispenses uranium PEZ.