"Frolic?" Marty said. "Frolic? When the curtains are blanched with tramontane bliss, when freedom sifts dirty through canvas of altars, when peaches remember your hex to parentage--now frolic?"
"Frolic!" said the cheesecake. "Why, frolic! For cattail buttings, palatial esteem-baths, creaturely muck among fab stentorians--frolic! Yes frolic! Today!"
"Oh frolic?" Marty said. "When birds are sack-munched, pad-dished and pus-crippled?"
"Pad-dished? To stand in the way of frolic?"
"To collectivize our euphoria and bounce it off chance like a card in the yesteryear flatulence."
"Oh yeah. Like daisies, remorse, fat bug-eyes, carnivorous witches, palatial goose..."
"Oh. Yeah, like roadtrip serene."
The cheesecake dilemma in the heart of the great Georgia Heritage Wilderness was this: Cheesecake? Not cheesecake?
Marty was fat, enormously fat, poundage bleeding guiltily into the next person's airspace, and cheesecake was not a path for "next sexy," as he called his "lake of attractiveness," as he called his future looks.
But the cheesecake was there in the great Georgia Heritage Wilderness, where the illusion was that air would strip you of untoward bulk, would cleanse your surround including those parts of you constantly mentioned in stories. The air, it was good, and Marty was not so totally fat that he couldn't imagine being stripped of his fat by the air: the good air of the great Georgia Heritage Wilderness, where thinness was a matter of ordinary procedure, so it seemed.
So it seemed! For Marty, having eaten the cheesecake, ending the great Georgia Heritage Wilderness cheesecake dilemma, grew larger and larger, far out of proportion with the three thousand calories now making way through his processes of processing, abutting in even more untoward processes bubbling with stereotypes of gaiety there on his appendia of dessert, dessert and more dessert.
Sad, inhibited Marty!
"Frolic!" Marty said. "For frolic is past and the grip on placebo comes frying the masts of rebellion."
"Frolic?" said the air. "When pertinence gasps, maternity laughs and the chipper gills lap at the slicks?"
"Yes frolic," Marty said. "For when ribbing is limned by apostrophized daredevils, nothing will soothe the unhurt."
"The unhurt? Like you?"
"Like the very mean gods of the trippable underworlds of fashion, like my own sorry craft, like tripartite laughter throughout the various manifestations of excitement."
"You are thinking of religion. That is bad. Perhaps one bite won't hurt you.