Automatism test post

2024–09–24

I asked some polyhedron a long time ago where they had gotten their hat from and they had said it had blown in on the winds. It had bright green facets. Diamonds were embedded in its three corners. When the wind had cleared up, it was resting under a pile of leaves. I had seen such an occurrence before. I had stayed in a hotel in Hartfordshire. I locked eyes with the wall and it was too afraid to move. I tried to make it budge, but I had given it too much of a scare. The other three walls badgered me for my impoliteness. Indeed, I had just wanted to hang up my coat. Cats were on the windowsill. They were all on various drugs. The cocaine cat leapt out into the street and ate several cars. It was a nuisance I would rather not have dealt with on a fine Sunday. My legs were limp. I had no problem falling through the floor and onto the pavement of the skate park. You couldn’t describe the smell. It most resembled a banana nut muffin. While that’s one description, the 1884 Shelton conference disagrees on the meaning of duck liver. I gave it a good whack and that seemed to fix the signal. Too many people jump to conclusions when seeing it for the first time. I had simply wanted to see Icosahedron nude. I was too much of a yeast baby to not feel embarrassed. I had moved to Connecticut by then and observed the locals. They had an odd sense of taste in adjustable horse removers. Make myself do automatic writing the squirrel said. It would be a task befitting of your redness. I said I wouldn’t tolerate that kind of language. I threw the squirrel off the Willis Building. It landed on the capstone with a resounding empathetic whine. It resonated with the windowpanes. In the offices, a man carrying his superior’s lunch dropped the fig basket because of the sound, spilling its contents onto the office floor. The figs coalesced into a larger being. One capable of destroying the mental fortitude of the weakest man in Argentina. At best, it was a low-tier fighter. Mammals are by-in-large, quite stronger than the average fig monster. Nonetheless, it was something that would require a federal investigation out of suspicion it was collaborating with the Soviets to remove ceiling tiles in an effort to disorient the accountants and crash the stock of the company. I was appalled by this sort of thing so, naturally, I had packed my things and gone back to Hertfordshire where I began to pen my newest novel titled “The Man With no Lips to Remove Small Dust-mites With”. I finished it within the afternoon and won the Hugo award the next week. To celebrate, I bought my neighbors several electric bicycles to hang on their Christmas tree. It was getting to be that season. I didn’t like Christmas because of all of the elves. They made me uncomfortable with their cloying little hands. I made it a mission to seek out elves and return them to the dimension they belonged. I found one with a green tri-corner hat and pointed my finger at it. I yelled some obtuse and obnoxious internet saying at it. This immediately shattered its fragile being into a million pathetic little pieces. The hat was then left to fly off as it pleased.