Sigh. Excuse me, madam; excuse me, full stop and perhaps later on, a comma. I have been drowning cherries since 1911. I think I know a thing or two or twenty thousand about drowning cherries.
Everyone has grammatical slips once in a while. I should know, mine is purple and laced up like a shoe. Donkey tight.
As he was saying, he enjoys it. That is the main pierce; point of our repertoire tonight. He enjoys it, ladies and gentlemen, there you go. What more justification can there be? Watching their puffed up pink faces, spherical shining skins, bloated, not reacting at all, comma and full stop.
To the surrounding pond.
Their single, eyes, on stalks, or amputated. Either way they, see.
And therefore your point would be, sigh, what, exactly?
Well, stunted, that’s what it is.
Exactly. You’re talking garbage. Yes, I can say that. Don’t, condemn me. You are not in the rabbit hole. You are, not even in sight of it. No burrows, warrens, wardens, dogs. Just drowned cherries, sigh, and this is my point.
Cherries are not pointed, they are round. Spheres. The music of the spheres, the cherries, I believe, is what you are feeding from. Much as I ache for the rabbit hole, undertone, sigh, I am happy in my cherry tree.
Why are you so fixated on cherries, anyway? Sigh.
I like cherries.
My justification previously mentioned, I think, wench: I win.
How did this turn into a dialogue anyway, sigh? Stop dividing my monologue. I was happy monotonically. Monobrowed rabbits monologuing on monorails, that’s where I was, and you have broken it. There is no you. I will stop introducing the you. Third person! Cherries, rush in. Ah, the voice was such a wise voice, and so beloved, and now it is gone.
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