ONE
The aqueous rains splattered against the shiny hard double layered glass window with a wooden frame covered in a wax finish and framed with glory. The precipitation cascaded on my epidermis, gliding and accelerating to reach my pitless eye sockets, one of which was coloured a vibrant, peppy, vivacious paynes gray. But the other a muted and dully vigorous bright purple blinder. My name is Patrick Étoile, warrior of the obsidian, I am but a mere mortal descending upon this godforsaken world that mimicked the frolic of my pink countenance. I wore an aqua green deuce of fashionable cropped trousers with a blue tint and pink patterns of lovely flowers that I found flowing in the wind of exorbitance one fine sunny day, with few clouds, one that was exactly 10 metres from where I stood, illuminating my atoms. The king spongebob square pantaloons, my former inamorato, was strikingly flagitious, and damnable now as the shadowy, execrable king of this realm. There was nothing I'd like to do, rather than pick up a white Crayola pencil crayon, made with the finest hues and conflicting and pigments, and shove the wooden stick up his fag ended fundament deeply. Why was he so parsimonious to I, but a mere bipedal disembarking thereafter this macrocosm, where all the world was divided by ilk. For this cosmos was salvation to a cast of illegitimate heirs, bartering, and thy holy cudgel. We in this world, cobalt as the firth, will exterminate the Cimmerian shade of this terrene
Spongebob shan't disturb my circadian rhythms every night, and I'm forced to succumb to my insomnia to keep my breaths soaring until the day I return to my natural state in annihilation.