Put it off for a bit. All life is putting off. Well, not entirely.

I was always on my oddy knocky.

When the State withers, humanity flowers.

Literature is all, or mostly, about sex.

It was like a bird of rarest-spun heaven metal or like silvery wine flowing in a spaceship, gravity all nonsense now.

Then, brothers, it came. Oh, bliss, bliss and heaven. I lay all nagoy to the ceiling, my gulliver on my rookers on the pillow, glazzies closed, rot open in bliss, slooshying the sluice of lovely sounds. Oh, it was gorgeousness and gorgeosity made flesh.

Put it off for a bit. All life is putting off. Well, not entirely.