Connie is a hero but I'm hesitant at wether she will accept my begging pardon and be able to speak without a bur from now on. Herein she could be totally right, since the bug lisping rules noone else would take into account (except Connie, our exhausted hero) is way fairly on a slaughtering track, at the end of which, crushed by hands and feet, there is no doubt it should be reduced to its pulp : fictitious and empty as a bag ripped to shreds during a sea urchin's fight, a scenario I recommend not to snub in the name of condescending «snobriety». While she may take probate at my savage will, she may also punish the tongue-twister by nosing him a slap, by sniping at the outrageous bugsie-me indeed, from a shivering quiver full of yellow plastic ducks.
She made something so brillant that it's blinding my eyes; I aknowledge I'm responsible for that, as i aknowledge also that Connie was astoundingly on her highway to craze. The fame she got from the game is pure legitimacy. My puppy love for words could not expect so much pleasure in watching her fold and unfold the foolish mysteries of a fierce combinatory leading people to believe - I cross fingers and ears - a new Literature was born, consuming the flames of Chaos!
Not only did she obey tentacular and silly rulz, hence valuable and dredging much respect from me, but the drivel she made is driving me just mad. Cause it is not only like taking «drivel» and saying, goddamn, I have «drive» now, what a mental illumination ! No, since the rules are kind of brainstorming your stomach down the heels instead, accordingly to a worthy of sabbath farandole.
Ok, you've got «dive» from «drive», but is it really enough to reassure yourself, if you're about to «die» by the final sword thrust? It'd have been better by far to trust the «devil» in the «drivel» and then switch to the «idle» noxious lie this evil intruder is nuzzling into. Don't you dare pondering that with all the nudge it requires?
Did Connie succeed in the challenge I'm honoured I have (me, myself and I on the threshold of Trinity) thrown into the scales with a frowning of the eye-bow? It's not mine to say. Connie squashed the squeamish sasquatch on a foot before lingering on a spurious Yeti and she did it well. Yet the well is deaf-and-numb :«Echo, sweet Echo! Do you mind telling me who is the smartest of all? Oh, oh!» I don't know if a stubborn Yeti could solve the game and climb the mountain back to Canada, yet I'm pretty confident that Connie's emulators will have a hard time connecting the threads where the spring springs... Unless hatred and thread shares but one death in the hat of hate?
So if you have a lisp, just dry your lips! And silence then will welcome your dreaming licence! It will eventually allow you to draw lines between drilling words!
Summoning the sundry suns and moons, Nostradamus seems to pray the Virgin to deliver the clues in a wellfashioned pattern, so as the cues will be understood at last by the true seekers of the self-spirited void. Periods and eons and eras have always give a heartbeat to the cos (-1) cosmos; that's how many Gods are roped in the dedalus of time, namely a maze. Would you be amazed if by giving a prod to the pod (on some adequate prop for the publishers and writers involved), Connie would suddenly arouse some new mechanics in the writing process? I did not ask for more when my arse arose from the harsh comfort of my humdrum stool.