The midnight toast is toasted in a chiming toaster and buttered with a slice of moon. The star-crossed marmalade, however, dissolves on my knife like anti-gravity diarrhea evaporating inside a rusting Sputnik. So tomorrow midnight I might try blackberry nubula on wheat instead.
There are more spreads in heaven and earth, Egon Ronay, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
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