.
Crossing through 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 below, which was slowly warmed up over a golden furnace.
The furnace was fueled 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), wearing a red beard on his chin, and only his chin, like a long salami; an evïl wizzard with 3 penises and pale-green skin, he came running onto the soft, milky grass of that meadow...
In his furor, he tried to shatter, to 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 from his triple sexxx; the minced saints, and Heaven above, did burst in laughters, echoing all along that lacteal and risible valley.
The jocoseness was so enormous, so enormous it was, that even the champignons started cumming, cumming and cumming over the poor wizard, who died, died and died, totally buried in cum.
The wizzard was buried standing up, in the depths of the sands of a beach, close to Saint Tropez.
"At night, the clock is covered by the humane mercy of the whales..."
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