The idea is simple, write nonsense, a stream of consciousness, turn on some kickass music and write the first words that come to your mind, in the order they come.
here are the catches:
it must be written in paragraph form, no two-sentence posts
it must somehow at least appear to tie in to the above post
the hope is that eventually, a coherent (if bizarre) story will be created. Don't try to deliberately create a story, that defeats the purpose.
The title of this story is—
chemical compound killer moutain magic.
moonbeam extra delight mimsied over the last horizon on the plane, never to come back again.
please, sir, if we may speak freely to the mystical abortionists within thy turqouise eyes. Just as one jumped up the cable, and the irons burned off of his eyes, the magic kicked in and he was saved and lo! So too was the bug on his shoulder and the sparkle behind his eye. Then he tarried off in a direction man cannot understand.
Further, when we finally dissect the magical matrix it will come to us as a series of digitally enhanced blue, violet, green, and orange pipes. Perhaps carrying some sort of fluid, but not water, oh no, not water, when they listen and they hear, they hear only what is inside your ears, not what you say out of your lips. This is good for them, as it lets them strum their enchanted sun sitars onward into the moonlit night, and as we shall see this is all entirely devoid of any real substance, but it feels and feeds the spiritual anyway. Revising itself like typewriter beetles as it goes along, with its misprints echoing outward and downward into the bowels of eternity.
They once told me that the shining neon seagull could never truly incapacitate the sunset. I was okay with this, I knew it wasn't true, I killed them there and then, raising my hand and declaring them sinners, I shot at them like lightning bolts and they fell from their steeds. Cracking open their skulls like rocks on the sand and rock below.
Indeed, the violet flowing lucid liquids of dreams and themes can be found with significant effort in any work of significant size. Indeed, this is the theory behind the Bible Code conspiracies and the logic of the rabbis who formulate them. But indeed, I do have to wonder on that day when the Sun neglects to rise and we find ourselves subject to the judgement of God, will we truly accept it? Or will we rise up, shout "no!" and defy to the last breath? Indeed it's impossible to tell, for like those violet flowing lucid liquids of dreams and themes, our psyche is an ocean submerged within itself and spread out over every conceivable direction.
Zap! Woosh! The lightning and the wind overtook my form as I praised the Lord and Lords at the top of their holy mountain. It would be alright, I knew it would be alright.
The idea is simple, write nonsense, a stream of consciousness, turn on some kickass music and write the first words that come to your mind, in the order they come.
here are the catches:
the hope is that eventually, a coherent (if bizarre) story will be created. Don't try to deliberately create a story, that defeats the purpose.
The title of this story is—
chemical compound killer moutain magic.
moonbeam extra delight mimsied over the last horizon on the plane, never to come back again.
please, sir, if we may speak freely to the mystical abortionists within thy turqouise eyes. Just as one jumped up the cable, and the irons burned off of his eyes, the magic kicked in and he was saved and lo! So too was the bug on his shoulder and the sparkle behind his eye. Then he tarried off in a direction man cannot understand.
Further, when we finally dissect the magical matrix it will come to us as a series of digitally enhanced blue, violet, green, and orange pipes. Perhaps carrying some sort of fluid, but not water, oh no, not water, when they listen and they hear, they hear only what is inside your ears, not what you say out of your lips. This is good for them, as it lets them strum their enchanted sun sitars onward into the moonlit night, and as we shall see this is all entirely devoid of any real substance, but it feels and feeds the spiritual anyway. Revising itself like typewriter beetles as it goes along, with its misprints echoing outward and downward into the bowels of eternity.
They once told me that the shining neon seagull could never truly incapacitate the sunset. I was okay with this, I knew it wasn't true, I killed them there and then, raising my hand and declaring them sinners, I shot at them like lightning bolts and they fell from their steeds. Cracking open their skulls like rocks on the sand and rock below.
Indeed, the violet flowing lucid liquids of dreams and themes can be found with significant effort in any work of significant size. Indeed, this is the theory behind the Bible Code conspiracies and the logic of the rabbis who formulate them. But indeed, I do have to wonder on that day when the Sun neglects to rise and we find ourselves subject to the judgement of God, will we truly accept it? Or will we rise up, shout "no!" and defy to the last breath? Indeed it's impossible to tell, for like those violet flowing lucid liquids of dreams and themes, our psyche is an ocean submerged within itself and spread out over every conceivable direction.
Zap! Woosh! The lightning and the wind overtook my form as I praised the Lord and Lords at the top of their holy mountain. It would be alright, I knew it would be alright.
I spread my wings and I learn how to fly....