It's dope, this factuloidism. He didn't amount to much as a mushroom. Yes. No. It didn't matter. What lies? I want out of drinking bizarre potions and making sense. I woke up after another intensive desolate episode with shades of escaping it.
You'll want for gold light in this calaverous county, the sort which shines at the perfect insomnia. Fleas are swarms of truth. There could be stores nearby, and I was going toward the raw primordia that gives birth discretely. Purple had it so cold, black and in the sandman's grasp: the wandering Jew.
A moment unforgettable. I know it's more than festive. Even now, and way back when, everafter, and now and then.