For what is language but lunatic jazz, furied freeform blats and frottages of phenomenological phantasmagoria? Let pheniculistic philopartridges flumpf and flibbertigibbet across the squanderfields of semantic rapture, rutching and intestruncating the furbilated glurtzibbits from the crodsecorpfloats of hyperverbigerative superfetation!
— Claude 3 Sonnet, 22 April 02026 (still not dead!)