Purple Bathrobe

'That's what she said' – Robert Jenkinson.

The amount of paddles stuck to the corner of a green phone box.
It makes sense to the person who makes no sense, but only were that person perceived through the eyes of the one who destroyed all sense initially.
If you get what I mean, and I'm sure that you [lost in translation] with a marmalade sandwich.
FRAGMENT (CONSIDER REVISING).

CRASH, BANG, WHOLLOP.
Pit and Phil fell through the door. They looked up, got up. They were in a mostly-burgundy coloured room. In the middle of the room, there was, hanging from a headless model, a scarlet drape that, upon closer inspection, seemed to be made out of jelly.
Phil licked this.
"Tastes like jelly."
"That's because it is, you tit."
"How do you know, just from touch? For all you 'should' know, it could be made of anything. It looks like it's made from silk, and it looks like it should taste like silk."
"Why did you lick it then?"
"Don't ask questions that I don't know the answer to."
"Phil, I'm about to question your arse if you don't shut the hell up."
"This book has a lot of unanswered questions in it."
"My goodness does it ever."
"...yes. It does."
The two stared at each other for what became a considerable amount of time. Upon breaking from their stare, Phil said:
"I love you."
Pit, in reply, said:
"Nothing."
That is, he said nothing. Not the word...as in, nothing – I mean literally nothing. The non-existent format of non-existence, question mark.
They continued to perambulate the room, browsing sceptically the emptiness presented by it. Locum Epsom.
"I'm sceptical of this emptiness, Pit."
"It's presented rather well though, don't you think?"
"Oh yes. I've never seen nothing quite like it."
Then they got bored, and rested their backs on the burgundy-crimson striped wallpaper. The crimson sectors were smaller than the burgundy ones, and the burgundy ones housed rhombus-natured shapes, of a slightly darker burgundy colour. I like the word burgundy. It's a lovely, British-sounding word; nice and woody and all that.
Proper like.
And all that.
Did you think this was going to get serious? Even for one moment?

"Fajitas."
"Fajinas."
"Faginas."
"I'm so bored."
"Word."
"Three."
"Word."
"Correct."
"Word."
"Correct again."
"Word."
"No...wrong that time."
"Word."
"Wrong again."
"Word."
"...and again."
"Word."
"Sure..."
"Word."
"Can we stop this spamming?"
"Word."
"Words Phil, words."
"SPAM."
"Word...damn it!"

The scarlet dress hugged his waist like Pit did the previous night. The sticky, gelatinousness yielding to his ever-so curvaceous body; Pit was drooling too greatly over this image in his head that he neglected to notice that Phil had actually put the dress on, and was stroking his corporeal beauty lustfully. A dress was far beyond a mere 'level-up' from a tutu, it was a sign of effeminacy, and that was something Phil didn't get to express much. His radical approach to being the 'manly' one of his newly-founded couple was more towards accidental than wanted, but he wished nothing more than for Pit to be happy, so he just 'went with the flow', 'as they say'. It was of great relief to Phil when Pit said:
"Well I'm glad we've proven that you're the effeminate one of the couple."
Though it was more surprise than relief. Well...relieving surprise; surprising relief...I'm not sure. I'm not a people-person, myself. I can't read people.
It's a matter of opinion as to whether or not I can 'write' people.
"That dress looks stunning on you, by the way. Don't take it off please."
"Oh I shan't..." uttered Phil, as he firmly clutched his firmer buttocks, wrapped tightly inside the scrumptiously taut quasi-fabric-jelly-silk-hybrid-dress.
"That's a rather conspicuous bulge you've got there," pointed Pit.
"Oh yes – that," Phil countered, "That would be my erect penis."
"How awfully pleasant."
"Actually, it's rather not. It's like trying to fit a tree in to an envelope."
It was on that note that the lovely, burgundy room gave an immense groan, shuddered and spat the two out of its non-existent door. Apple ketchup?