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The Monkey opens his eyes. A few critical seconds pass as he fails to realize a fundamental miscalculation of quantum space-time buzzword vector thoughtforms during his last unbounded samadhi. "What I need is a existing Master, not a community college yoga instructor with an Amazon.com account." he thinks, taking his bearings. While his
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What other turgid traditions can we trudge up and tie in twain? The monkey sees no evil, hears no evil, but tastes evil. And it tastes like tuna. Freshwater baby dolphin fin soup surprise with a lemony twist of goodness that only comes from ripe tripe.
Why is a Raven like a writing desk? The dark wings of harbinged things always comes-a flappin' on a feather? Whatever.
As below, so above. Missionaries agree, doggie style is better than no style at all. Ride 'em cowboy.
And the monolith reaches to the heavens, obsidian and ominous in it's epochhood. And unable to resist, the monkey must fling its feces.
Thus sayeth the mad prophet of evolusion and evocation. Amenislamabadrunkendoo. Hail Eris. hehe.
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