I know I am not making sense, but that is meant to be.

But then again, how can I write this when I cannot believe?

What foul atrocities!

But nowhere do I find myself, but here, again, in time, alone.

With the other author beside me, I make fiction sound horrible.

What the hell?

Time to go, I say. Time to be free.

But I have lost myself in the water-filled ecosystem.

I am alone, confused.

What foul atrocities!

In considering the water-filled ecosystem, I could not help but obscenely vomit.

My globules, obscenely shaking, gaze for an ephemeral instant upon the words. Heaven save my soul!

Time to go, my friend says. What are you doing here?

What the hell?

But this is not the time to speak of such things, of cabbages and kings and immensely-disgusting yucky things.

I find myself in a strange new world, amid the echoes of destruction.

What the hell?

I think I might escape if it were not for the moose's appendix stuck to my left ear.

Time to go, I say, but my friend cannot help but unnaturally quake.

What the hell?

Unspeakable but so, that is not my story.