Word Salad

[Cloneysocks]

From fizz-bender to staple-dome-time, the orange-red sizzle-fists marveled that their existence was meaningless. All at once, or in addled parsnips, they would gather their gromets in a great circle, whence they would emerge for the first time. Never knew they the black night of ennui, nether the search for purpose. They contained all, for all were content.

Then came staple-dome-time at last, and it was, for the innocent sizzle-fists, and as the sky's hue no longer deigned to match their skin but instead rambled into the abyss of indigo, they knew the good times were over.

[Cee Pee]

I'd continue or start a parallel story if I actually knew what it was about, and the game needs an objective.

[Psion]

Our heroes stood, brimming mystically at the effervescent adventurous crashing waves (whose smooth thighs were the evolutionary vestigals of its haunting shallow past as a sniffling gull), like two stalwart stoned poets, drunk on Spanish sea and sand.

"This is perhaps the end of our days," said the gaunt tall fellow, whose sniveling mustache was poignant and proper. "Yes," replied his rotund companion, who I swear has a daughter that could make the skies rain with sperm -- for the gods themselves, in their glittering bat thrones, please themselves to her image. "Perhaps."