Salad Fingers Quotes
I do love rusty spoons!
The feeling of soil under my fingers is simply divine.
The nettles, they do caress my weary skin.
I like it when the red water comes out.
Hubert Cumberdale, you taste like soot and pus.
Oh, how I adore the feeling of decaying flesh!
I long for the touch of a cold dead fish.
My rusty nails are the perfect tools for my delicate work.
Mmm, crisp and crunchy toenails make the best salad topping.
The whispers of the wind tell me stories of forgotten places.
The crunchy leaves bring me joy in the darkest of times.
Milford Cubicle, you are my one true love.
Would you like to see my collection of spoons?
I dance with the shadows and they tell me secrets.
I can taste the sunshine in the dewdrops of morning.
My heart, it beats with the rhythm of insanity.
The voices in the radio speak directly to my soul.
Wiggity wiggity wack, the world is a strange place indeed.
There’s a certain beauty in the decay of the world.
I am the prophet of all that is odd and peculiar.
Oh, Marjory Stewart-Baxter, your hair is so luscious and green.
Can you hear the laughter of the invisible hands?
I find comfort in the company of my finger puppets.
The taste of rusty metal brings back long-lost memories.
I like to imagine the trees whispering secrets to one another.
The sensation of maggots crawling on my skin is strangely comforting.
Salad Fingers Quotes part 2
Ah, the sweet aroma of decaying flesh is music to my nostrils.
Every shadow has a story, waiting to be discovered.
The moonlight guides me through the labyrinth of my mind.
The sound of bones cracking is music to my ears.
Sometimes, I pretend I am a tree, rooted in the earth, reaching for the sky.
There’s a certain elegance in the decay of forgotten dreams.
I believe in the language of mushrooms and the wisdom they hold.
The taste of blood is a reminder of the fragile nature of life.
Milford Cubicle, you are the object of my affection and my fascination.
The touch of a moth’s wings on my skin is a delicate caress.
Every rusted object has a story to tell, if you listen closely.
The world outside may be strange, but it’s where I belong.
The nails holding up my curtains whisper secrets of the past.
There’s beauty in the darkness, if you open your eyes to see.
Blood stains on my hands, a masterpiece of my own creation.
I find solace in the absence of sanity.
Every crack in the wall holds a universe of secrets.
The taste of metal reminds me of a world long forgotten.
The whispers of the shadows guide me on my surreal journey.
Hubert Cumberdale, you have a face that only a mother could love.
I find peace in the solitude of my decaying little world.
The sound of a clock ticking is a symphony in my ears.
The fading stars are a reminder of the fleeting nature of beauty.
I am Salad Fingers, both a nightmare and a dream, wrapped in rusty spoons.
