An analysis of An analysis
Here we analyze an analysis. Regional politics will come to a halt in light of such matters. For we must ask, why are we analyzing? And why do Americans use z where UKers use s? Press "push" to pull.
We begin with the thesis: that an analysis is, in fact, an analysis. The formatting is awful, and makes us work hard to read it. In some language with which I am not familiar. Diacritical marks sprinkled luxuriously about sentences that force me to parse to the right ad nauseam. That's Chapter One.
Chapter Two seems to be in Latin. This time I can probably use Google Translate to muddle through it. Too lazy. Can't be bothered.
Chapter Four? Eight? fsdoijsaif was boring.
Chapter LXXVII.V is interesting. It seems to be a set of alchemical formulas stolen from the Illuminati and freely distributed worldwide on the internet for common folks like you and me. Maybe I can make platinum from cinnamon and cat skulls.
Chapter 9999 stopped me cold. The reference to Cthulhu always makes me chuckle. The writing appears to be in a made-up language, or perhaps that of the Old Ones. Then I noticed it. About three quarters of the way across the text, in every line, the same space appears. This forms a vertical line of spaces throughout the chapter.
As I examined it more closely, the edges of the room seemed to curve in an otherworldly manner. I could feel/hear my blood pulsing in my neck. My wife wrinkled her nose and asked about the odor... dog farts? I had a taste in my parched mouth, like old eggs and iguana. The line of spaces seemed to grow and pulse with sinister intent. I could hear the cackling of insane children through the floorboards. Terror gripped my heart, paralyzed me in my chair.
In my mind, an Old One took the form of a bunny, cute to look at, but whispering dark incantations. Somehow, I know when it was finished muttering, I would be dragged kicking and screaming into a Hell worse than Hell. When I arrived, would I be able to breathe the atmosphere? Would I be crushed by gravity? Would I be devoured by a monstrosity beyond my imaginings?
I look up to see my wife turning into newspaper and trying to crochet a bullet proof vest. I feel consciousness slipping, slopping... down, down... more on this later, if I survive and regain consiousness...
...what? where? Oh. Right
So, Chapter - wait, why chapters?. It seems to be a spiraling illogic bomb centered on location, location, location. I got a little dizzy on the tip of the iceberg, but someone without monster hands may or may not have made a Hitler clone in Brazil.
There's no sink in here~[edit | edit source]
Oh, and it needs links, a pic or two and categories.