Genstov

Scattered among the buttress upon the illuminated sighing winds of Nasfara, the young pixelated derelicts corroborated upon the dusky tables and springly gnolls. "Farstaff," said pixel 1, immersed in the etereal experience of sentience, "is it not fair to say that tonight beist greater than any other nights, for the head faucet that makes up the gerth of my mind's frying pan is set to a constant London broil?" "Nay, Reginard," stated his magnanimous brethern. "For tonight is the night we shall rise from our collective mental graves and ascend to a state where we may indeed squeeze consciousness' toilet paper." "But sir," stated the other. "We're all out of shameless bee-shaped light bulbs." Thus the night ended in a raucous celebration.