O jotun idaho I barely knew thee. What fructose carriest thou in thine womb? Is it not true that the eldenbrecht is your mother and the fruitbat your father? Do

O jotun idaho I barely knew thee. What fructose carriest thou in thine womb? Is it not true that the eldenbrecht is your mother and the fruitbat your father? Do you dance alone in the moonshine, leaves leaving dappled patterns on your skin, scintillating aardvarks cavorting nearby, always ready to praise your flanks and rotund tubules? Let me now speak of soft things such as bread. These things are more easily made than others, being primarily composed of those parts that are with less form than what we have so far observed. It stands to reason that the absence of form in their nature predisposes them towards changeability, yes, truly, they are protean in nature. Bread, so, is the archetype of all things that live. Created, quickened, baked, hardened. Consumed by need. If left alone, it goes stale. O Ophelia, thine most fruitbatulous tubules excite yet stronger yearnings within my gullet, but shall I be forever warned against the tides of leprosy that even now sweep through this fair hamlet? Isn't all that we see but as bread? Indeed, were we to do the deed, what creed would we bleed? What need would we feed? Let us then retreat and retread instead our oldest and least useful thoughts: bread. Where does it come from, where does it go, where it stops nobody know because bread is ineffable that is to say if you stick your dick into it, you are going to have a bad time. And that's why you should always wear protection.