Monotonous beat, monotremic metronome of momentous moments long since buried beneath bales of baleful bandicoots. Bah! Narcissus-X avers adiabatic lapse rates ascending crescendos of cacophonous coliiformes.
Die Fledermaus flutters, yet Narcissus-X remains. What price flight? Whence the two pence pettifogger, and zeppelins built for two? A rose by any other name would smell up the entire back 40: but no, bunga bangkai, Sumatran sullenness, six times six; and weave a circle round him thrice; but no!
Avaunt, people from Porlock, away! Approach no more! For Narcissus-X still stands! Stands for art, sands of time, sands of time drifting slowly toward the past.
But there! Narcissus-X strains through the glare, the noise, the fluttering festoons fast fading fearfully, and beholds! The dome! The caves of ice! And the river, running straight and true as Mandelbrot's maze to caverns measureless by man, to the sunless sea.
Narcissus-X remains no more. The music loud and long sounds silently amid groves of dulcimers and broken lutes.
The river calls, the vision recedes, but no more swiftly than Narcissus-X advances: for Narcissus-X is art, Narcissus-X is artist, and Narcissus-X heeds the call; set forth once more, and pressing on sail beyond the glittering caves and shouting birds, to the sunless sea.
For it is there, deep beneath the obsidian sky, that Narcissus-X calibrates the cadence of chimeric penguins sliding swiftly toward the Acheron shore.