No, wit. The words seemed to ripple through the air, washing my surroundings to the side as they did so and leaving me in the smeared technicolor blotches of their wake. A form then arose from the collage of images and took shape. An enormous head emerged, flat and dragon-like, with a large beak protruding from the upper jaw, and two sharp, bright eyes, sparkling with clever merriment. A pair of long, narrow horns extended from the back of the head, increasing the total head length by nearly two-thirds. The basic body shape was reminiscent of an tyranosaur except for a sleek lion tail and the near-horizontal position of the torso. Lastly, a glittering swirl of dust coagulated into a pair of long, narrow wings adorned with such an array of colored plumage that, I fancied, could not be equalled by an entire rain forest of birds. Overall, the creature looked fantastically patchworked, not to mention unbalanced (for though the legs were by no means small, they did seem considerably underproportioned in relation to the rest of the body).
"It's the wit that does it, you know," the beast continued "Wit, inspiration--and a bit of silliness."
"If I may ask," I ventured cautiously, "wit are you?"
The surreal entity chuckled, not unpleased with my phrasing. "I am a Refosolyf--THE Refosolyf--and master of this realm."
"No, not in such sense. More like Overseer and Elder Denizen. Actually," he added matter-of-factly, "we had a king once, but he eradicated the throne and we've had none sense."
"Right. Nonsense." A thought came to me: "Tell me, do you eat--well--people?"
"Ha! Not even the purple! I'm a mental creature. I need food for thought--not flesh. Facts and figures are my fare, and lines of lyric a luscious lunch! When ideas are food, imagination is as good as photosynthesis. But I have eccentric tastes for the wild, zany, and fantastic, and I have a voracious appetite. 'Why sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.' So said the great culinary master, Lewis."
"Superman, " Refosolyf responded.
"Mock Turtle Supe," I concluded. "Lewis Carroll again."
"This funny fellow is surely fit," my companion mused delightedly, "to feast with me on food of wit!"
"A truly tasty tale we'll knit," I agreed, "to top our table. A tender bit!".
Thus we banqueted, Refosolyf and I, until we had had our fill of philosophy, extra helpings of hypotheses, and double portions of prose. As we concluded our dining, a man appeared, carrying a small satchel at his side. From this he took a handful of what appeared to be dust, scattered it into the air about the feast table, and departed. When the sandman had left, my host said to me: "I must go now, for I am at my Wit Sand. Do return, that we may again partake pungently on assorted knowledge." With these words, Refosolyf and his entire realm seemed to evaporate before my eyes and I returned home to this savage world of science. Once again I erected my defense--my fortress of logic and reason. This time, however, I left the gate open; this time I opened the doors to paradox and impossibilities because once the foundations have been built--and reinforced by insurmountable strength--inconsistency can only bring insight and contradiction carries only the opportunity to expand perspectives and deepen comprehension to new levels.
This is my story. Though it may seem extraordinary, it is thoroughly credible. A yarn so peculiar is just as plausible as any history, scientific law, or newspaper story, so eat up! How many impossible things have you believed today?