The path

The salad fork. It's the stories that make the world, not the world itself. Blow-up doll... Muffinface... Harpsichord... Magnolias everywhere... so many flowers, petals everywhere... so many... Bread knife... I believe in probability. Simple. It is what the faceless desire. It is not a standard of rigorous proof to say, 'yeaaah, we can kind of see that. Now let's go to lunch.' "Cheeseburger with a large fries and a coke, plus a kids meal... Cake... There's... fragments. Bits and fluids. They don't fit together anymore. An apple, once chewed and swallowed, cannot be reassembled."

Everything with light casts a shadow. The brighter the light, the darker the shadow... Imitation fake vomit... Hotel... Straight, squiggly, roundabout... Milquetoast... They do not wander. They dare not wander, and they do not know what lies beyond the border of the Madness. Note to self - leading questions depend on denotation and especially connotation. So what... um... eh. Sometimes they are afraid. I am Maxwell. I make multiple passes, building off what is there with each successive pass; the first is only the roughest of drafts, but then they build from the graininess to create something smooth and impeccable and grand. Leave me be, and I will go on indefinite. I am a renderer that exists only for a renderer's sake; all else is immaterial. Literally. Our integrity sells for so little, but it is all we really have. Hotel... Potato masher... Giants looming out of the mist... Oil... Trees, ferns... President-for-life... Squid... "Nystagmus..."

It's just an object. Doesn't mean what you think. Communist... There is no way to tell without philosopher. The garden failed before it could properly begin as a result of insufficient memory.

Is this the madness?