O Boggle ... soft mystical demon ... You who, in times when men were still living without asking questions and typing on mammoths cynically endangered, was able to tell other gods: "Let us pause and reflect."
Mirror unfathomable. A strange serenity. Stupid weak men who still believe in a God who is not what they believe. Silly sheep, always crying, afraid of what they can not conceive when they should watch with morbid curiosity and boundless ... Woodlice whiners. I hate this vile race who drools when she speaks, moans when she sings and revels in its mediocrity bland.
Yuck. I vomit in the face.
Alcohol. Divine liqueur. Sickens me. Alters my pathetic person and take me through the maze of your scrawny ether. That my saliva is your flavor forever. I swallowed your perfumes and dark in beds with mattresses suffering and bliss.
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
Copacabana ... Matthew Kassmoilcul ...
saperlipopette et jarnicoton. Cornegidouille.
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