Only the inexpressible is worth writing about.
The flesh of his arm hung in tatters, his metal reinforced skeleton glinting through the dripping gore, yet there he stood, so strong and proud. How jealous I was of him then!
It was always a disorienting experience, and I never really knew what to make of it, or whether to believe in it, but something deep down made me feel it was important.
He crashed through layer after layer of underbrush, finally landing with a thump on the floor of a large cavern.
The air above the altar ripped asunder, pouring alien atmosphere into the temple. Through the mist, writhing tentacles reached out toward the congregation. There was a low rumble of thunder, and a booming voice said, "Yeah, what?"
He'd do anything if he thought it would make a good story. Of course, if he'd been a better storyteller to begin with, he wouldn't have had to go to so much trouble.
Everything fell into place; I saw the world clearly then, as it truly was. I still remember the feeling, but I don't know how to recapture it.
I don't believe Spam is a meat product at all. In fact, I have it on good authority that it's harvested from ant colonies, where they make it much like bees make honey.