The Surrealist / Stream of Thought writing Thread

But heareth me ender, son of the loneliest star, treader of path's once cornholed, for I am the king of the mountain, and decider of genritity.
 
Stunned by this news, I pick up my noodle turncoat and flee in horror from the messenger's omniscient scientific bastion. Hark! I hear these angels sing and thrash around in glorious highway devotion.
 
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In other words, I should have had a V8.