There is a place beyond the borders of the yesternow, just south of purple and eastways of inspiration. In this place as wide as a mountain's hair and as viscous as the breath of a rat, the makers sat and spoke.
They are ready in the third, said one voice with a tongue of satin.
They are ready in the fourth, thundered another voice with the dimensions of a thimble. There were tones of plastic in this voice's final word, denoting that it contradicted the last voice's statement.
Is there momentum in either?, whispered a voice from beneath the sun. Cheese unraveled in the time between fingernails, something that only happened when no voices spoke for a while.
A hundred thousand times in the fourth, the voice like a drop of alcohol growled in tones that would melt concrete in the mortal world.
A billion times in the third, the satin-tongued voice slithered in plastic.
The color blue was invented, destroyed and remade a thousand times. When the voice as great as a lady's littlest finger stopped laughing, the sub-solar whispers captivated the audience.
We shall test them both. Shapely tones of entropy unfolded, and a six-pointed magenta star flickered in the dark.