Automatic Writing I

The window zoomed out to a mountain on a hilltop making a loop around the cosmic duck defecating on the window. Trying to run away she had a drink and walked away. The mouse saw this happening and wondered about her lovely cat meeting a strange figure in the light of darkness, the Martian way. The cave in Mars held a red cauliflower cube making it the most cherished places to visit for little Zuzi. She likes to run around and eat apples leftovers from Venetian rebellion, famous for summoning the boy in the street to carve a way forward for the rebels. The palace door knocked over to the sea flying nearby in the fifth heaven of the Andromeda Galaxy blackhole, making it a major event to make way for clothes to be stitched. According to the professor the mouse ate the clothes. Nibbling all over the place and ultimately making the whole house fall down in the valley of the golden mongoloid camera named Mr Blue by the neighbour of our wolf dog, Prince Carlsonian institute of Antarctica. The light shone on the cat by the door and she ran to the alleyway and opened a door to Tibetan deserted frog. She is angry at the shaman making faces in front of a portal to his room. His mother was making a cat and frog stew and putting in spices from Mexico which didn't make sense. How can she get spices from another planet in a galaxy three kilometres away. She hadn't been that far ever. To replenish her thirst she drank an ocean in the orange pond, sinking down in a green field from truly the obvious childhood dream of goddess Venus. Zeus was shivering but nobody cared except the husky bear in the New Yorker streets of maniac body vegetable dusty Springfield. What happened said the sky? Nothing happened for sure. We the tiring monkeys of captive grass feild. They, the packets of martyrs hanging on the ceiling lampshades of darkness within and without. For sure it's a horrible site. Why not make it a yellow son of seas and muesli yoghurt everything all at once, a sign of a mountain goat on a shirt of systematic destruction of my office table blues. It continued for a long time, the destruction was flawless and paved the way for future summoning of the one within. Depths screeched to a halt. The world melted, children were blown to pieces. Nobody dared proclaim the godliness of the camel’s kid. The one who died for the hidden message in the canyon of seven blissful lights. And then went further under the bridge and sea corridor crack. It was complete darkness and the nun was cataloguing the script of my future carbonara recipes on the brink of instinctually exhaustive existence of excruciating excretion. Cake is the best food in the whole final fantastic cookie monster buy my room sharing capacity. To be in love or to not be in sun is the fastest answer to her foundationally deviant arson of a powerful protein shake machine in the restaurants of magically created videotapes. That machine was long gone and time slowed till the next portal allowed me to jump in the swimming pool cloud of foreseeable futuristic walks around the hanging garden of Taj Mahal. I like the white marble of senseless perversity. Wind flowing in the capital city of Bermuda triangulationary situationistic debacle.