Even the dreams of the man in a mountain insane asylum are based on a true story. Everything is as true as a lie; even lies are a truth when they’ve been told.
I tell lies like ice cream melting in the sun. I’ll treat you to all the movies from the video store, but remember that they’re based on a true story.
Please don’t turn me into a perfect being. Even the door handles don’t really want to see that. If they don’t fall off first, eaten out from the inside by an attack of the spelling bee, they’ll lead corn syrup into pregnancy.
There is a cork bobbing in the Great River of Cream. The River is a cow’s way of getting back at us. The cream is so sweet you die instantly just to touch it. Diluted with water, the magical cream can cure any known ailment. Only the river is in a desert, where there’s no water, on a planet in another galaxy. One of the red shifted ones, you know, receding from us.
There are no fire escapes: it’s a death trap for the mind.
The food is a reminder of decadence. Rich and creamy where it takes a salt tooth to apply any salt as seasoning.
Everything is a nut short of filling, but together makes a mountainous bell that was three pieces of bread at the summit.
There’re maggots made of matchsticks crawling out of my ears. Worms beaten to a light fluffy chocolate sauce. A strawberry on top turns out to be a diseased kidney.
Then comes the final course of fish that tastes like chicken (after the dessert). An erotic ensemble bred for children of indifference. On the side, a spring onion left to grow until summer. The meal took so long to come out that, for entertainment, I tried to find places on my skull that it didn’t hurt to hit with the flat of a spoon.
My eyes feel like someone’s building sandcastles on them.