NaNoWriMo
I've pretty much given up on accomplishing anything for NaNo this year, but I wanted to write something just to say I did. I was bored and not paying attention in English, so I wrote some highly surreal stream-of-thought something or other.
A bunch of nonsense follows:
Weavy, chalked the link upon which dreary sleep burst scarlet steaming shapes and wept through blinding tracks of light, went he beneath deep cloud and soaking sobbing stabs in wanton way. But for fury, latent with cheerful foaming fright, gliding hot along great earthen hem and hill, winding erasure flees blackened daubs but long pursues a lovely tine to quench it. Firmly glossed, waning steps in shattered lumps of misty midnight hinged, swings lightly noble head upon no trunk of arbor rot.
Strung eyes through empty pupil, rushing upon each broken scent or piercing sound, fanning green drops of Winter, kiss winged phalloi, fearfully hidden and fearfully exposed. Chapel hats perched low on bended appendages flutter on paper dreams of dead men's faces, alighting far from yesterday's king or tomorrow's golden pillars. The last move, seeking seething flow of downy retribution, trumps once itself and twice all other brim and brill.
Well, maybe it's not entirely nonsensical. Feel free to share your interpretation.
A bunch of nonsense follows:
Weavy, chalked the link upon which dreary sleep burst scarlet steaming shapes and wept through blinding tracks of light, went he beneath deep cloud and soaking sobbing stabs in wanton way. But for fury, latent with cheerful foaming fright, gliding hot along great earthen hem and hill, winding erasure flees blackened daubs but long pursues a lovely tine to quench it. Firmly glossed, waning steps in shattered lumps of misty midnight hinged, swings lightly noble head upon no trunk of arbor rot.
Strung eyes through empty pupil, rushing upon each broken scent or piercing sound, fanning green drops of Winter, kiss winged phalloi, fearfully hidden and fearfully exposed. Chapel hats perched low on bended appendages flutter on paper dreams of dead men's faces, alighting far from yesterday's king or tomorrow's golden pillars. The last move, seeking seething flow of downy retribution, trumps once itself and twice all other brim and brill.
Well, maybe it's not entirely nonsensical. Feel free to share your interpretation.