Fertilizing the Memory Palace's Garden

Too wrong, too long, too little, too late to give up now as we climb up the mountain of horseshit and bullshit and all shit from all creatures under heaven's grand dome. But still, brownshoeing through our deathpath, onward we go. The mails must come through, and the world is dead and the postal system is fucked, and how about that airplane food? The mountain's zenith is possibly our subconsciousness's nadir. Our heads dead from burdens of proof and burdens of poo, the ivory throne still waiting at the top at the dung heap, the bus continues to move at 100 miles per hour as the minefield lies ahead of us...the shit of God, the fumes and visions unmistakable! Dear Father, please give me a PS4 for St. Swithin's Day...(count the eggs before the hatch is opened and Season 1 of our Lost Oddyssey ends in Cliff Hanger, hanging from a cliff! You shoot him off the cliff and the years keep coming and they don't stop coming and they don't stop coming and...) and then I want you to put that in your pipe and smoke it all the way to Neptune...

Dung Beatles cacophony zenith in hearing range, ears bleeding and world spinning like a top on Old Smokey the bear's wobbling firy belly full of hell, and our heart is revealed through the noise to be untrue to the true blue big sky master chief petty officer in the sky's girlfriend, and avast!.exe has stopped working, brown town turned upside down, turning the mountain into a molehill trojan horse virus sphincter ready to push out our screaming souls that will wander this vast terra incognita, shrunk, and dancing on the head of a silver pinball worshipped as a god by the ants. The Coming of the Flipper is at hand, collective dreamstate turn off, you could smell the Frambonian dung on the vessel for at least 20 parsecs, it even penetrated the stasis chamber. Somehow.