Too Many Fingers Inside the Dimension

The ramifications of these thoughts protrude out from under a car that's speeding through space on a lemon pie. I see the stars whizzing by in the bathroom where the floor is wet and dank. Dank like a joint where you take a long drag and carry the dead body out behind the Taco Bell. I stand at the gates of the fiery disco and get electrocuted by the great Zeus himself. He stands up and drinks the juice from the flower that the hummingbird flew over the pot of gold. The dragons sit on the kitchen and I eat bacon from the chalice made from coke and proceed to shoot the bitch up with a scythe. I really have to pee now that I've assimilated the jello.

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Poopdeck farcy cracker pants. I don't know what that was. It's going to be wonderful when the stick men fly down the fires with trench coats made from corn. Is this really how things will turn left? It stinks like mug dipped in owl eyes. The hairs from the underwood I see prickle and sing the afternoon delight on a way that I could taste.

ICE! Can I have some apples to throw at the crows in the supermarket. He looks at the pancakes and screams in for the crimson dynamo that is a statue. It saunters across the river three days from the sunlight bouncing off the chrome ladder in the garage.

I try to see how one could start inside out of the pickles that one puts on a burger. I hate sliced pickles like they hate God. Mangos on the other hand are pretty pink ponies that need wings to follow the stick men just above the monkeys throwing acorns.