Babble, Babble

We want to do some things, that are like things, and some other things, that are more like stuff. When something is done, or when stuff is done, there is a reaction to a perpedicular vector. Or maybe a canteloupe. Regardless, the other stuff is roasting to a sizzling height of consciousness. I know not what that means, it's just all gobbledegook. Where does it all end? For that matter, where did it start? Nothing is the same now that everything is nothing. A dollar bill fell on my head the other day and that causes the wall to collapse, because dollar bills are coins now. Haven't you heard? The eleven o'clock train came by at ten. But that was then and this is not then. Perhaps it is now. Or maybe it will be now later. Whichever is the case, I am wearing socks, and my socks are wearing little velvet hats covered in sparkles. But they don't sparkle because they're defective. I know that because they were made by badgers. Lousy, lousy badgers. My mind reels at the mediocrity of it all. Or it would if there were anything mediocre about, but it's all sauce, sauce covered in noodles and topped with a plate. My glasses are too tight and maybe that's why I'm babbling like this. Er. So, stuff...