Crystal gazing monstrosities! Impure filth sucking malformed flightless sightless abyssal freaks! Your misdeeds are known, I revel in the swampland of your discontent!
Soon will come the day when your baking tins shall know no more sardines, and their scales will lifted from your eyes and then lunchtime isn't very much fun after all now is it? I told you, I told you this would happen, but nobody listened to me. Nobody listens to the dead. They should though, the dead know things. BAD things. Things about cakes, and guns, and guns with cakes in them. Have you ever been shot by a cake gun?
Frosting did me in, frosting done me wrong. It was a dark frosting, gooey and delicious, but when it came to me, I turned it away, never knowing the crime for which I'd pay. I thought it was chocolate. I'm allergic you see. Which is weird. Dead people don't have allergies.
When I sneeze, I see stars. And planets. And sometimes the vast twisting darkness of the spaces between the toss of our cosmic lords. There's jam there, not frosting, JAM I say! A candied curried horror of a condiment. It drips out of the edges of all that is, spreading a sticky film over existence, and making us all wish we were buttered on the right side, not the wrong.
Can you use a butterknife to spread a sheen of lies? Or will you acquiesce and committ yourself fully to a toasted world?
Soon will come the day when your baking tins shall know no more sardines, and their scales will lifted from your eyes and then lunchtime isn't very much fun after all now is it? I told you, I told you this would happen, but nobody listened to me. Nobody listens to the dead. They should though, the dead know things. BAD things. Things about cakes, and guns, and guns with cakes in them. Have you ever been shot by a cake gun?
Frosting did me in, frosting done me wrong. It was a dark frosting, gooey and delicious, but when it came to me, I turned it away, never knowing the crime for which I'd pay. I thought it was chocolate. I'm allergic you see. Which is weird. Dead people don't have allergies.
When I sneeze, I see stars. And planets. And sometimes the vast twisting darkness of the spaces between the toss of our cosmic lords. There's jam there, not frosting, JAM I say! A candied curried horror of a condiment. It drips out of the edges of all that is, spreading a sticky film over existence, and making us all wish we were buttered on the right side, not the wrong.
Can you use a butterknife to spread a sheen of lies? Or will you acquiesce and committ yourself fully to a toasted world?
