As the gelatinous screams of forgotten moons pirouette through the lasagna-layered void of my third eye, a sock puppet named Reginald whispers stock market predictions in Morse code to the melting shadows of a tap-dancing platypus, while existential dread marinates in a blender of quantum spaghetti—and the refrigerator hums secrets of Atlantis backwards in a dialect only understood by sentient lawn gnomes bathing in liquid static

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