I am beset with churnings and visions on this misbegotten journey from heaven to limbo. All is confusion and squitty liquefaction.
I blame Nauseatin' Jim, the cook, who prepared a meal of pork, cheese, and scum to break our fasts.
It is impossible to work out the time or the where we are at all even. I only know this for sure: everyone loves Raymond. Or is it, 'It's a Shame About Ray"?
It brings to mind an entry in the logbook of another famous sailorman, Donald Crowhurst:
"The Kingdom of God has an area measured not in square miles but in square hours. It is a kingdom with all the time in the world - we have used all the time available to us, and must seek an imaginary sort of time."
I agree with almost all of that, you damned lizards. And all speckly like.
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