Canvas.

"HERE, TAKE THIS," commanded the shrewdly contemptuous thespian. Omen hesitated, but eventually abided to the onlooker. As he sat in utter disposition, the constant reverberating echo pulsated to the point of surrealistic nostalgia. Stop to forward the end of freedom. The turn ended in an abrupt catacalysmic force, a force not to be reckoned with. But, at the same time, the origin of the newly attention-getting aura was not suitable for event-suggestive lifestyle.

"That's preposterous! To suggest such a thing really got my goat, you ass-chapping pseudofedular!" Ed stopped only to realize his open-minded disposition had a limit of potential, but when it was spat, the frontier swipes away to the habitat of the conquest. "Breakfast shremkfast!" Breakfasts do come and go, and why should anyone with half an audacious brain put up with such shudder? Easy, hitch your wagon to a star. Omen was speechless; his choices here are remarkably even-handed, an everyday camouflage concealing wondrous absurdities that summoned his familiars, including: a fascinating theme of puppetry in which the propetier examined a fair sight far more imaginable than most material eloquently dropped by the ever-so-popular temperariousness of the awkwardly committed.

"Even so, if I was to see it from where you stand it might be another story all together, but, that is positively why I'm here. You do understand that nobody is looking for a psychosexual surprise in today's wintry economic climate, don't you?" asked the onlooker.

"Well, I noticed how your stream of consciousness narrative would have any writing instructor cowering behind the weary paradigms. Your bizarre, dream-like fluidity would be cake aplenty. You also pile on a rich dialogue like an avalanche of frosting. I've been very lonely in my isolated tower of indecipherable speech."

After having said that, Ed adopted to disclose this conversation. "I'm--I can't decide if ... yes I'm sorry to have commanded such an atrocity; therefore, I'll take it. No need for you to have the unsurpassed responsibility to deal with on such a premise." And off he went into the dream.

Omen sat there wondering what just happened, if it was fate or just a common denominator bequeathed with ungulance. His pattern of thought was misdirected as the force came back. This time, from what it seemed to be behind him. Omen slowly pivoted on his dominant ped. What met him in conjunction was an object with a demon-like sound/feeling, vibrating of its own silhouette. When, in almost a wisp of performance, vanished into a series of croaks, still confident of reality. "Wow, I don't know what to think," Omen said to himself as he felt in the darkness, on the wall, a button. Omen subjected force in the amount needed to comply the switch, releasing both lauding and lampooning with equal dignity and impressive inventive theory.

"Good night," Omen said to himself, and with a few palpations was out like an ever-melting fire like sunset on a third Wednesday from every other year that had to do with the phrase: NO ONE CAN EAT 50 EGGS.