“Careless and uncaring, crass, craven, fractious, meretriciously vestal, rude, intractable, ungraceful and ungracious even when she, speciously divine, pole-prances solo in front of her cunningly crafted Hawaii sex-mirror — sarcastic, arcane, acrimonious, sacrosanct, narcissistic and autarchically absent-minded, uninventive and inconsistent to a degree that would belabor Mnemosyne herself, Reality is a farcically gendered bitch prone to the most protracted bouts of loquacious lochial cramp who tends to plagiarize herself, and not in the good way. This, in a nutshell, is the cardinal thesis, the overarching raison-phare, crux vera of my Case Against Reality which I have proluded in the manner that I have supra, not simply to belabor Mandelbutter’s substitution by a wanton barmy baume blafard, but to emphasize that our mendacious pyxis war reimisch, sozusagen, mit that of another dyad’s, which invidious plagiary the sinister tyrranous racoleuse then flaunted on the most de rigueur and cutest trails and debonair ruts and cattle tracks and crepuscular and tittering streets of a city, Paris, for instance, sans pudeur! But she’s not content to spread her facetious harlotry of bravado copycattiness, her factitious erscheinlicher crap merely by plagiarizing her own idiosyncratic simulacra, tinted stromata deprecata, cack-handed musky-soil parenchyma — no, she extracts her sarcoid, mineral, and mute herbaceous bric-a-brac from the intracranial hobgoblins, the incarnate ambulacral imaginings of the live beings incarcerated in the dyscrastic prison of this, her abnormally plump pleroma. This plundered farctate mix — air, wires, wax, rime, risible nothings — of larcenous gimcrackery she’ll then scramble, splice, and cobble, rescramble, resplice, and recobble, into the sacrificial scarecrows and macaronic scaramouches formicating her anfractuous scarious macroscopic epicarp. Hence the reason we schizomythologists must needs on occasion clitalyse dreams: not because they are oracles or help us peruse secret atavisms or guide us ultimately through the broad vacant avenues of the Bardo Cave to the épipôle pic de nirvāṇa where the initiated will rub sacral sacra with the otherplace yoni-husks of exploded stars, but because our dreams are often pierced in Pavlovian places by the obscure stray nocturnal tracks and needle-lace traces of the nonchalant ruses, turgid taunts, cruel shameless canulars she utterly torments even our most achingly sweet diurnal acts with.”