Wondrous tumbles and flowing onomatopoeias roll forth from the AI voice of Henry much too quick and nimble at the course set speed of 0.8. I set it down to an 0.6 so I could savor the words in my sleep deprived state of 4 hours shifted from last night.

Too many psilocybins swirled in your tea possessed your prose to gyre and nibbled in the wave of jumping streams, my head ablaze with tizzy phantasmagorical too bright for this reality frolicking saults of the somer varieties. Did Maxfield Parish let colors escape from his pallet into the vapors inhaled by Wafi, Amani, Remmie, Viola, and Merck?

I suppose I shall have to wait (boo-hoo) for the next installment of your ride into the next reality shifts?