Overgrown with ferns is Calabi-Yau space, where a precocious proprietor bestows power over all adenoids because doing so is preferable to looking better than a full course meal.
Your flickering candle dimly illuminates the redoubt of the seven resinous blobjects. During a lunar eclipse the words ‘Me gusta!’ will appear etched on the floor and by this shall be known the true identity of Tilda Swinton.
Without recourse to either a randy stare or an electric cable, the quadrumanous desperado has more pressing matters at hand than a game of stratego with the likes of you. The doujins write themselves.
Despite the tip of your hiccius doccius being buried in its ego the uchchaihshravas crudely described in chalk is a strange choice of hill to die on. Stop, drop and roll.
If you can't reserve the right to remain silent no matter how hard you try, remember that failure is not defeat until you stop trying. The number you have dialled has not been recognised.
Whereas Little Miyabi settles for scorning to concern herself in the affairs of men, the pantogelastic alp-luachra is your ticket out of here. Your doom is close at hand.
No matter how shamefacedly you play the ‘victim’ card, just know that an extra helping of jackpuddings are working VEWY HAWD to fix this and it’s like ‘Shut up and kiss me!’
Have a care when you display your credentials, otherwise Teddy Williams and his myriads of zburators will raise aloft their unspecific blades, utter a fanfaronade and attack.
When God closes a door he opens the only spot in the limpid culvert where mortality rates have risen forty per cent since Oberon the Robber Baron started issuing every mercenary with an excoriator.
Your feet won't even touch the ground in a saffron estancia conducive to the mood. Declining your invitation to luncheon Lady Gaga requests that everybody faff about. A fish always rots from the head down.
At the top of the spiral stair loiters Nyx the teenage androsphinx who will show you the way to a gemmeous dome where you no more turn your head because you know some frightful fiend doth close behind you tread.
When an unstoppable force meets an immovable object the end result strikes your comment about Derren Brown and various sex acts performed with strychnine inside an urn from the minutes of the meeting. They were warned, but they just had to keep pushing the boundaries of science.