He came into the room with a thundersnap, slimming the carrots from entropy. Losing amethyst, he guffawed high freedom into the skyshrine. Falling was a thing. He did that thing. That thing was done. The ground was another thing he was closer to now. Just like winter…
Grumbling chicken recipes, the parka on his torso wished for riverboats to amplify feelings beyond the naval threshold. Fill in the blank with something interesting here, because he couldn’t do it on his own. The vacuumed lobster boiled cruelly above the toll bridge. A chicken didn’t exist.
Parboiled ganache dripped like wax from a candle, if that was was in a double boiler and being applied to cakes or jobs. Application, affliction, it was all the same thing to this entrepreneurial zombie chef.
Holding back the tears, which rhymes with bears not beers, his hare’s hairs dared bears fairs and shared fares for pairs of pears. No one cares. This beaver of consequence shook like a muffin on a tree, consuming absolution like simile trees in the middle of a metaphorest. How much is Sweden? A dog’s underpants, he reasoned.