“What do you want a meaning for? Life is a desire, not a meaning ~Charlie Chaplin” Dawson Filter saw descend from the sky in remarkably large, Styrofoam letters.
“That’s neat.” Dawson remarked; less eloquently, but closer to sensical than Charlie the Chaplin.
“Neat as the day’s length.” Sylvester verblessly replied. “How did we get outside?”
“Via our legs.” The rocker answered, equally verblessly; but without a second sentence to redeem his grammatical reputation.
“Sorry, I’m bad at reading between the lines.” Sylvester apologized.
“Eh?” The rocker inquired, hands, ears, and elbows at his sides.
“It makes more sense to them.” Sylvester explained, motioning to you.
“What ever is your name, musician of the rock and roll?” Dawson asked Babe Listowel, in a (spoiler warning) effective attempt to change the topic of conversation to one making him feel less like just another word on a page.
“Babe Listowel.” Babe Listowel justifiably replied. “Let’s go over to the Amazon Basin now.”
“How ever shall we do such a thing as this?” Sylvester and Dawson said in unison, promptly afterward hanging their heads in shame of their inexcusably existing behavior.
“On a boat.” Babe replied, pulling a steamboat from his tweed pocket. “This boat, if you enjoy such activities as getting specific.”
“On which body of water shall we float?” Dawson inquired, hitting his face via his hand as Sylvester motioned his head to the Atlantic Ocean which had just positioned itself directly to their left, to the dismay of everyone East of Saskatchewan (Fortunately, this transpired two years after this was written, giving you and your extended family simply a boatload of time to prevent getting dead).
“You can’t take that.” Sylvester notified Dawson.
“Take what from whom?” Dawson asked, in the earnest hope that Sylvester would respond.
Sylvester did, saying: “You hit yourself. You’ve to stick stuff up for yourself.” Dawson punched himself again. “Good revenge skills. Try to just work it out with you aggressor next time. You always end up digging two graves when you keep the cycle of anger spinning like that. It’s self defence, not hurting-people-fun-fest.”
Dawson saw with his eyes that Babe Listowel had already boarded his steamboat; and followed after, finding him to be, at the moment, more sane than Sylvester. Sylvester had a similar thought; but about fun instead of sanity; and also hopped into the boat, until it was a boat with three human beings in it.
“I see you’ve gotten some farcical little rakes for my fickle lanky hands.” Dawson told Babe, pointing to several distinctly non-rake posts. Babe Listowel looked to Dawson and nodded, knowing that this would be a fairly perfect response for the majority of remarks made by those in his company in the last seven minutes. He pushed a button on the boat reading “To be pushed for sailing purposes only”; and a pillar of steam wafted up from his watercraft. The craft picked up speed; and before long, short.
As Sylvester Denny, Dawson Filter, and Babe Listowel sailed, waves gently brushing up against the bow, followed by the stern, before being lost in a sea of water reminding them that they could never beat the system anyway, the Sun began to set; and the crew knew that now would’ve been an even neater time to have a large, Styrofoam quotation drift across the horizon.