.
Crossing by the forest of the crucified tapirs, caught in celluloid, in my lucid dream, there was a clock.
The clock was built in the meat of the saint innocents, and their blood, dripping down day by day, drop by drop, was filling an ocean, that was slowly warmed up over a furnace.
The furnace was fed with eyes of harpy and genitals of sparrow.
The God of eyes like wool of July, smiled amorous receiving them all in a kingdom beyond the skies.
But suddenly, a tall wizard (wizzard), with a red beard in his chin, and only his chin, like a long salami; an evïl wizzard with 3 penises, came running onto the bland-soft, milky grass of that meadow...
In his furor, he tried to shatter, smash that clockwork of love; but one of the venous penises got entangled in the sarmentous branch of a tree [botanically unknown]...
While the vile magic-man was in repugnant agony, bleeding profusely by his triple sexx; the minced saints, and Heaven above, did burst in laughters, echoing all along that lacteal, risible valley.
The jocoseness was so enormous, that even the champignons started to cum, cum and cum over the poor wizard, who died, died and died.
"At night, the clock is covered by the humane mercy of the whales..."
The wizzard of long legs was buried, in vertical position, under the sand of a beach, close to St. Tropez.
.
