Whither the penguins? Whence the pence? Hence the artichokes cry: the best Hollandaise passed, alas! Narcissus-X envisages, visions vast.
Fleecy fragments, delicate ashen vestiges drifting away: born by breezes unseen yet tasting dry with desiccant doubts. Narcissus-X doubts, but doubts not. Never cry nay! The horse neighs, the dog barks, but trees stand silent: yet speak in any but the gentlest breeze. Hush, say the trees! Hush! Narcissus-X listens.
