The Book of Dreams, Chapter 9

The human is the son of man,
Anything else would be a man-child.
The child is the father of the man,
and we are that child.

Human raindrops descending in chaos when they could be ascending in elation
Into the cloud that is The Future
We may envision ourselves outside ourselves, but there is a woefall. Ascension into the clouds would be painless.
"Killer manchild!" a man yells out from the crowd.

Corpulus cumpunction
Do fade away
Into the pink snowstorm
The higher we climb, the higher speed we reach when we fall off the cliff

We constantly reinvent, it is our mainframe pastime
We are now outwardly reinventing ourselves via outside function;

The blue area absorbs all below it because it is lighter than air: It floats directly above our plane

Bloody collusion between the abstract and the human
Beautiful epswords that perforate into the abyss

Corporal Electrorays falls out of the ground and into the Apostle Still;
Still grinds against the ground as it makes its way to hurry,
and apostles up his sleeve.

Bewildered betwixt man-breakes-all, the helly Loose tumbles up to speed and Silly catches up to her, but not without breaking a sweaty pace.

Sostle remains up to speed, yet it—the slimiest of the tandroids, eblirious of the above—has some catching up to do. Stettles remains as well, although it travels lightly over several shades of said blue before settling down.

She is sleeping, reports the man-breaks-all. Terrible captures of the apart have stolen over us, but Loosely has nothing left before bowling over the tandroids themselves.

I, narrator, shaking Loosely as well, finally break off the tangent by stunning others. It is without taming so much as a leaf that we then broke the ball.

Part 2: The Stolen Archway

We stand beneath the Bay of Bed. Starchingly montily upon us is the Soft. "Homers beware, for out at sake as deep as owls is the tandroid." Of course, I take nothing aware of this, as it is all happening sleepily in my head as I savor up to play.

My stunning corpuscle reaches over and slams me out of existence as I tape my plate, probably because my brains are breaking down.

"There are stars peskily abounds that carry sleeping weight over all," I tapped into the Frog Breutal. "Tangent over link." This various refrain surprises me almost as much as the other self while sitting down. It praised over its own reprisal in a way that I hadn't quite started before except in the 1970s.

The aforementioned maestro began bleating effortlessly, almost as a gut reaction to my brailliant flipover. I tasked him with the book, but his effortless tirelessly continued. This sort of gut reaction is what makes me want to savor my appetite.

"Manning it's five four three two one. Manning epitself because." stated the rhinoceric barber that grazed upon these questions. "You started to not unself become, and that is why your capture rubs."

I stood there, realizing I'd just bestated a magnitude of prophecies by way of the Court's Ear—the ear of the judge, whose spoken gaze geffled me uncomptuously.

Static me frollywozen, I baffled yet with glee, despite the plithereens of the battles immediately yet fought.

"Endten?" quired the exonerated man yet more.

"Tired," I said. "They are tired and they need the fabric." My frog leapt up pumptuously and we immediately gained a sense of traction in the fear of the noise.

"I don't splend it," collywottled completely he again, "I told my own self that my frozen had it."

And as right I was.

Part 3: The Wool

It completely mystifies when cartled changes set it repeatedly upon the human populace. Yes, the same human populace that continues to mance on in the force of doom. But when this color shift takes place—color-rosy to bedlam brown—it contulaly stabbers the majority. Why? Because effortlessly as the Aforementione Gauntfauther continued to break the time, such then is the carody that carries on depletely underneath our exitence for the entire playtime. Lifelong we bereade for such common sense as a prophecy, and when yet our other selves contrap it inside-along, so goes our death-decay horn as if fire was raining down on the skies.

We're starting to decrypt from this merry high, and that's okay. Stoken as the banchelors were, they never soaked when the Intent spake of itself. Dastardly, aforementioned, and upon-the-ways alike grimmed the betrayal yet spoke forwards about it.

The process will not be grim, but it will grim their betrayal unto the flat plane beneath. Continually retch and those spun will begin to betray themselves. Retract ominouslly and those packed begin betraying each other. It is only when the great mass betrays itself unto the Law of About that it self-rectifies as Able-Itself. We must go now.