The special “sadness” bongos will be playing all night. Your rancid plumage makes my trachea tingle. The tongue is the only muscle in your body that can be seen by koalas while you sleep. Being a were-raisin is especially dangerous. An enveloping black cloud carbonates my blood with pockets of emptiness and it’s a crisp refreshing feeling. The soft grunge exhilarates you! I can smell it in your eyes. At the instant of engine failure, an airborne proctologist should rename herself Cephaloquariel. “My scratch-n-sniff pet pygmy yaks are coated with Teflon to deflect stains,” bawls the figure from the castle in a hollow, hideous voice that I’ve heard somewhere before. I admire the thanotarian flubhumanist who can’t manage to commit suicide but dies trying. Let’s taste-test teas brewed from the navel lint of undead jumbo bumblebees whose faces resemble pugs via natural selection. The eyes of baleen turtles are located within the shell, behind the grille of bristles, and thus cannot be seen. Do these elongated, spade-shaped hooves make me look flat? Required delusion: I baked a sweet potato simply by holding it in my left hand. Keep in mind that your beagle puppy is not perfectly spherical. It is actually squashed in a bit at the haunches and widest at the muzzle.
Wait; what? What did I inspire, exactly? Does it involve your household? Are you growing flowers to replace your hands? Are you doing that thing with ether that invokes coughing in shellfish? (I’d like a basket of coughing prawns, actually.) Are you building something out of shrapnel I sent you when I was asleep? What did I inspire you to do?
I just. I don't understand. I feel so creeped out. Page after page after page. Help I can't get out!
Here’s what you need to do: You should encounter a clothed mannequin soon. Insert one hand between its torso and the fabric to make sure that no veils or similar things were concealed there. Set a glass of boiling water on the floor nearby. Cover it with a square of cardboard, and then place over this a second vessel, as in the illustration (GIF XVII). Care must be taken that the upper glass is perfectly clean and free from moisture. And yet, why bother? Eyes will follow you past any curtain you choose to name. There is no courtesy in this place. Outside, people are dying. I am ravished by an enormous locust. The room is colder now.
The most intelligent insects dream about feathers. An old superstition states that if you hide between couch cushions after a meal, you’ll become a globe of incandescent vapor. The more diet soda you drink, the more likely your dog will attempt to drive your car. Our stillborn triplet had vibrant stripes and, though dead, would often dance when tickled. Show me on this Goya etching where the owl touched you. Friends don’t let friends bake their grannies’ ashes into Land of the Lost-themed erotic pastries. Wrapped slices of American processed cheese were originally made with horse or hog bristle; today, synthetic fibers are used. Next time you decide to tar and feather someone, why not molasses and Barbie head them instead? What if public sculptures suddenly had gastropod “feet” and moved around based on the whims of very small children? A hollow plastic hand filled with fruit juice is a symptom of iodine deficiency. “Dental floss exists for my personal hygiene and not for lynching rows of plump earwigs in front of relatives,” I remind myself yet again. My invisible magnetic antlers will befuddle your sonar.
On the night of January 2, 1914, a mental patient named Birgit Panquire roamed away from her ward in search of her daughter, who had died years earlier. Accessing an unused section of the hospital, she entered a cold, empty attic, where she sat on a crate and stared intently at a heap of old fabric in the middle of the floor.
Soon the heap became animated and ascended slowly, unfolding into a symmetrical bank of clouds. Within this, a figure appeared in silhouette. It made a few mournful gestures, then extended its arms and transformed into an opulent palace façade, with numerous ballrooms and galleries visible through open windows. A hundred or so ghastly cherubs appeared at various balconies and began a singular whirling dance. They were joined by others who came in from around the back of the structure, riding goldfish that swam briskly through the air.
“Is my child there with you? Where is she? Where is my child?” cried Birgit.
A voice from one of the tiny figures answered, “That has nothing to do with all of this!” and a few seconds later, the entire apparatus imploded, fell to the floor and was still. It had taken the form of a magic glove that, despite its great power, would be of no help to Birgit at all. Not long afterwards, World War I broke out. The End.