No absolutes! No idea!

    The lizard looked lugubrious again. Then it struck Arthur with an aging vegetable marrow, which had won second prize in Sodding Dull village flowershow only five months previously. "Feel that?" the saurian enquired. "Yes," said Arthur. "Then you're not a philosopher!"

    "Hang on — I recognize that marrow. It's part of my gooning-bag, isn't it?"

    "Well, Arthur," said David Colemanballs, "you're absolutely rrrr—"

    "Hang on!" yelled Plato in Greek, "no absolutes! no forms! no είδη! no idea!"

    "Well, that's a turn-around for the books," said Richard O'Brien who popped into existence for a couple of nanoseconds at this (●) point.

    "Hello," said Mr Hollis, because he couldn't say anything else.

    Sanskrit exploded, praseodymium gibbered, napkins renched, and salamandrian toothpaste-yakkers protested rantingly in the strood. Surrealism returned, sneezed and blew itself out the window.

    Chiefly in order to prove that really surreal forests have windows — light orange kettle-shaped ones. In this case.