You've become rather sullen, Helen

The depths of absolute absurdity that is absurdism is remarkably absurd in the face of absurdist colloquialism; it's almost as if there's fried chicken somewhere in the attic that's become a bit too old for the dentists over yonder. Perhaps there wasn't even a single premise being waved around like a fetid monkey at the Times for a ceremonial refund, but, of course, what else is to be expected when the zweihander is being threatened with insurmountable poise? Toys? Don't be so coy, boy, for there will always be a moment to yourself for the invisible Corinthians to flash violently, shouting out words of fiery blood in their wake. Surely the hunters of sjink can make themselves available to you on Friday.

I am not at liberty to reveal my sternum to certain people once I've rid myself of cosmic putrefaction. Verily, the will of the feral hollow beckons ever closer to my patella. Only through this sublimation can oblivion become heavenly obliteration at the hands of an imperiled lemur.

What is that? An arbitrary disposal of your tarsals?

Your Italian death metal is just a forlorn old voidhanger, so to expect any sympathy to be garnered would be tantamount to beating Yhorm the Giant with one fell swoop of your dagger. Trust me, it only happens when the spider demon prostitute allows you to, and that's never an assured outcome. Yes, such a dreadful finality to your spelunking will make you seethe even harder at the sight of the Boreal Valley.