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Wednesday, January 14, 2004

Sometimes, when I'm stuck, I like to write complete nonsense. This is one of those times:

Stardust on the empty palace, looming for what foretold the gloomy substance of the midnight fruitcake. Behold, she said, waxing over the moonlight, that sometimes your castle must be a sterile laboratory, unfettered by promises of cake or wheat. So you can’t underestimate the power of dildos, but that does not translate to Belgian when you run it backwards through a copy machine. For lo, everything in the universe boils down to one tragic episode: Formulation. Control. Episode 37: The Global Anti-Vacuum. Tenderfoot bottoms are not allowed in these premises, unless you have a slice of cheesebread to feed me. That is un-wholly, she said, while downing a glass of orange juice with pickles. That is the result of a subspace distortion wholly unlike that of your pants.

So when cheese spits up at you from the bottom of a ravine, just tell yourself, I am whole with the universe. Then the universe will suck you in, like a great big anti-vacuum, and you will need to be disengaged once you are reduced to subatomic particles at the core of the universe’s being. Ciao!
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