It would blow your blob, dwelling on the matter – or non-matter, for that…
For that…
The roar of the funnelling canal or colon Aberhardt, Gaalem and Boeg float down, should cover this sort of babble. Boeg, the most high and mighty globous, plasma-dripping, blobbing ball of shit out of the three drifts higher in disapproval. In his coarse spherical form are all the forms of the world to be.

Appearances can be deceptive.
Gaalem slows a little to trail behind, trailing behind his clotted, compressed bulk strings of muddy, bloody snot. Gaalem is dense; an unknown quantity whose mass suggests colossal compression at the centre.
The change in Gaalem and Beog’s float formation conveys a touchiness at – at Aberhardt’s (the personal pronoun, the single stroke that separates the seeing from the seen, is not a thing yet) babble. But Aberhardt is compelled to describe, articulate, announce, and even alliterate what we – what Aberhardt, Gaalem and Boeg are about – which, on the mucky surface of it, seems to be no more than to drift in a rough formation, the direction determined by the mucky tube that has formed us from its spinning wormhole of blood, plasma and shit.

Thus created from the same matter as the swirly canal or colon that created and shaped the trio, we – they – shed bubbled strings that are absorbed by the turning canal wall and nothing is lost.

 

Nourished by their own decay an unravelling hole has been shaped for the trio, by Boeg, most likely, and it is our unholy (Boeg revolves with a warning humpiness in his mass) trinity that will bring the world into being for in Boeg are all the shapes of the world but none of the trinity can be taken out of the equation, particularly Aberhardt, for in the beginning was the word –
Gaalem floats close from behind and Aberhardt is reminded how unstable the dense bastard is and not to be trusted alone with Boeg.
But they need Aberhardt.
Boeg only knows what could happen otherwise.

 

Language might be wordlessly discouraged by my (oops) blobby companions but by turns bemused and abashed by the babble, Aberhardt is encouraged to initiate a game.
A word game.
The idea is simple and could be the makings of laugh.
Beginning with alpha (obvi-us) Aberhardt, Gaalem and Boeg are to each come up with a word that begins with A.
But no ordinary word. It must have to do with the blobby balls’ state, condition, form and purpose.
And so the word game begins.
Aberhardt.
Nothing.
Anoesis.
Anabasis.
Archetype
Arsehole.
O, was that a grim bob of approval?
Apathy. Accretion, ambulate, atrophy, arsehole. Repetition. Aberhardt has no powers of recall, it seems and will never learn.
Begin again; a softer, blobbier sound consonant with our shape and form.
Blob.
And, along with some internal bubbling akin to mirth, Boeg and Gaalem do!
Is it possible these articulations (that could have been a dodgy offering for the A category) determine some differentiation between one thing and another?
Gaalem and Boeg drift in formation either side of me (me!).
Beginning, ventures Aberhardt.
Birth.
Boom.
That satisfies them.
Curious, Aberhardt continues with something even more consonantal.
Consonantal.
Cunt, says Gaalem out of the black.
Boeg shifts away. Gaalem trails the bloated bastard and bobs in the blob’s shadow.
Cripes, says Aberhardt. Criminy, corners, conspiracy.
Gaalem and Boeg revolve. Bits of Aberhardt trail behind in dripping strings as, out of aforementioned curiosity, the babbling blob ascends as what appears to be a blob-sized recess, a big black hole above (or below, it’s all relative in these parts), in the tunnel wall, approaches.
Aberhardt bumps into it, docks, revolves this way and that. It’s a perfect fit.
Boeg stalls below (or above).
Where is Gaalem?
I’m in the Boeg! I say, making a play on words that might appease, bemuse or confound the shit ball. Too late to pull back the personal pronoun. Aberhardt – all right, I, gut a noise like something plucked from mud.
Uck!
A shadow slides beneath and eclipses the colon’s liquidy light into a shrinking crescent (O, go Aberhardt; posh stuff) as Gaalem sneaks up (or down) and seals (s so soon?) the hole and all is spinning in the black and bloodiness with nascent shapes that come into being and are gone and as Aberhardt’s bouncing, gooey mass atomises, babbling decepsion! dislooshun! Uck! Unt! into the canal wall, the hole thing is OOOOOOOO0000000000000000000000000000000000000oooooooooooo……………………………….