You are in the orchard that time forgot. And in the middle of it stands a man, a man as old as time itself. He is not just a man, but all men. And women. And their pets.
You sneak up behind him.
He is actually made of salt, and dimes, and leftover biscuits. You develop a hatred for him intense as oh, say, what a lettuce might feel towards an oilrigger - were lettuce and oilriggers on very bad terms. He tries to embrace you, but you scoff, and mutter something about how he's just a bunch of salt and dimes and leftover biscuits. He moans his agony and sinks three feet into the ground.
You start whittling.
You have made yourself quite a handy little wood carving, and only lost 6 fingers in the process. Moments later, the wood carving is you, and you are a fountain, which sprays wood carvings instead of water. The local fern is pleased and you swell.
The saltdimebiscuit man looks at you (subtract three, and divide the whole thing by whatever's in your fridge) and warns you to temple.
"The saliva grows with(out)in," you reply, knowingly. His teeth smile.
Papyrus lurks; your shoulder is in fact a mango of its own design. Proclaiming symetry, the lance of the tawny-deathbed scores seventeen of the finest. A livery stable will not be a LIVEry stable UNLESS IT eats the spoke in your brain - I speak of the pablum rink, only to find wondrous pork rearranging a seemingly convenient spine substitute. At the last minute my horn liquifies and regurgitates the tentative, last seen hiding in some beets. In this way, the drowning man is made to feel appropriate.
You heap up with starchy feelings.
Tara Ph.D., B.A., Girl, Owner of Plaster
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