PLY
 
Esoteric actors congeal a disconcerting dialogue with prisms of possibilities, as solar flares exit nare a nautical nuance in the séance of space.  The daze of dollars drab in crass harmonics, historonomics.  Changing frequencies, Jasper jinxes the model by arranging the hexagonal chains braided as an infinite border.
 
The coarse concentric arcs laminate sixteen dimensions of ascension.  Death defying leadership of military, Sir Major Roar, scores not a stochastic planet, but at least a scientifically correct Dyson sphere, ... complete with referential moons as teeth distended to form engines that knish space with astro-kaliedescopic charm.  Space-time alarms ring, Jasper sings a chorus of a mythic adventure, Sir Major Roar knuckles down a fantastic gradient, saving face.
 
In the Harem of Ships, docking bliss . . . Ghyselle jams open the port, critically elastic and inspects the vivisection of five dimensions.
 
The Hoard of Harm on the planet below cannot fathom the Iota of detection.  Reminiscent of Rituals released, canker soot shrouds the jugular extension linked to orbit number three.  Feeling that Jasper has won with fate, she fakes a mission and makes haste.  Ejection clouds diffuse, enveloping the electronic outer shell of radiation.   Jasper teases another quadrant to stimulate the microwave vehicle of an alien archetype.  Plied with purpose, the city surplus of pride tastes nationalistic, thus an increase in the buffer zone is applied to a maximum.  Taxing torque, Coriolis cancels descention as Ghyselle picks a point in the joint of this HeliOrganism.  An untethered, rogue moon slams through, effectively unbraiding the artery of articulation.
 
Sir Major Roar has no further communications.
 
Journey of a neighboring solar system, whose axial tilt harmonics shrills of solitude, and uses their ergonomics of fluid dynamics to augur a particle of victory.
 
Blistered with belief structures astringent, climbed pedestals of piecemeal purpose, Mister Zed-Ped of world number three thrills at seething through intercepted celestial logs.  Retooled the military, historonomic razor reasons revel as nubile neuron nations.  Faced with a forceful decision, as remissive as cogwheels grind time, he punches up a new wielding armor of auspicious conformity.  Clocked in at chronovores hoarding health, Mister's sister AquAtom launches subconscious hints at hedonistic ménage a quad.  Void of vowels, grunting animals gift the game at proclaiming clues as to which gender grants the rules, or readership.  Siftlessly synchronistic, cavernous cornerstones on the geodesic vertexes give birth to rising emissaries, equipped with diastolic vision, reeling in lessons, these very same answers nurture not the dilemma, but a new drama.  Patterned after pleasure, measure twice, breathed once into the bowl of sisterhood, lucid lures recant the diametric opposition.  Kneeling now before the cannon of biological love, Mister Zed-Peds' missiles match targets across the cleverly woven sea of space.
 
The festering question is, which set of discreet data becomes the errata to erect a plausible plug to the cannon of love?  A source of sanguine sugarroes, whose essence once distilled and digested, gave luminary justice by flowing through the eyes of the needles and seeding the minds in time to reduce and reuse the refugees in this begotten era.  The Harlequins' potion recursive in the emotional extract to keep intact the vestiges of intuition.