The last word you read was read was “was”. The last word you will ever read is “moist”; assuming (probably unreasonably) that you are the lanky, eye-patched, woman who trotted out of The Illuminati For The Blind headquarters in the year 2040; in an event regarded by the majority of historians as the moment when tenses jumped the shark. “Hello, Twelve-Anne.” Benedict Oakley greeted the woman.
“Hello, Wayne,” She replied, informally enough that I would still be unjustified in referring to Benedict as Wayne Rubblefish. “your guests smell rather beige today.”
“We’ve been trying to help our members better understand colours by associating them with numbers. Twelve-Anne has a form of synesthesia that has her mentally connect scents to numbers. One of you just smells like some fancy number to her, and that number represents beige in our respect for the sighted classes.” Benedict told the true-meaning-of-feelings-ists, feeling that Twelve-Anne’s statement deserved an explanation to defend her sanity. “I think that beige is 1782.”
“She hasn’t gotten synesthesia.” Babe Listowel stated, his voice seventy-two semitones below what it typically was for most of his daily activities. “I do smell like 1782. I am 1782.”
“Why, that’s simply as fancy as the day is long!” Exclaimed Dawson Filter, in stunningly little synchrony with his lips. He soon after decided that it wasn’t really all that fancy, mostly on account of how it didn’t bear an incredible amount of resemblance to truth.
“Let us abandon our state of being outside; in favour of getting all inside-the-building-ed up.” Benedict Oakley suggested, as far from being Spain itself as he ever was. The others agreed with this suggestion, save for Sylvester Denny, who wasn’t paying attention. Rather, he had chosen to whittle a log cabin out of a single block of wood he’d found resting next to a rhinoceros.
Once the band of genuine-flesh people-beings had arrived in the Illuminati For The Blind headquarters, which took four days longer than most would have anticipated, they were greeted by an outrageously tall, narrow hallway, resembling the valley that Barry Stanford would paint white, build five foot walls around, roof, turn on its side, and place in his collection seventy-seven years later. Down this hallway they marched; accelerating rapidly as they realized that they they had no reason not to. There came an end to their march, though, shortly before they found that they were no longer marching; which they deduced by noting that one cannot march and fall at the same time; in combination with the fact that they were falling down a deep, leather chasm. The tunnel appeared to span for several dozen kilometers, with platinum stakes protruding from its six walls; but fortunately, it only appeared this way to Benjamin Humphrey three years earlier, before it was renovated to an eleven-foot drop with complementary pretzel bags.
“I’ve been broken!” Dawson Filter’s left ankle thought, after discovering 1.462 seconds earlier that it could think. Babe Listowel read the ankle’s mind; and kicked it via his foot, enraged by its blatant lie. The ankle’s ensuing concussion resulted in its next thought not coming for another nine minutes; and every thought after that was unfortunately unprintable. The ankle, in this way lost its every chance of expressing itself in print, all for a moment of glory, willing to sit on any throne available, even if it was a throne of lies.
Dawson Filter strongly emphasized with his ankle’s pain of being kicked; though the event had rendered the appendage mute, never to speak to the lad; the first of many relationships to be torn apart in the quest to find and record the true meaning of feelings.