Longest Sentence Ever

Deep within the mist-shrouded, stony mountains of the frosty north, eighty-seven miles from the crippling chokehold of modern civilization, tucked away in the thickest thicket of crisp winter pines, there is a clearing, kissed with even strobes of natural light shining through the frozen branches and berries and shivering wings of great horned owls like fingers glow red when you hold them up to the sun to cover your gaze, that houses a house – or a cabin if your imagination requires the proper term (as if you would be imagining a contemporary, four-story, eighteen-room mansion out in the middle of the wilderness) – of logs cut from the same pines, amongst tangled bushels of weeds, wildflowers, and icicles resides my religious – and when I say religious, I mean she sleeps with a King James version of the Holy Bible tucked neatly underneath the folds of her blue-veined, cellulite-dented arm, the wrinkled crook of her elbow resting somewhere between Psalms and Proverbs, and a cross fashioned from two tree branches, the organisms of the outside probably still crawling within the ant tunnels and knots and twigs of bark, hanging ever-so-reverently above her headboard and yellowing, creaking mattress, the springs screeching in protest as they give way to her folds of fat and matted hair (reminiscent of her plump, shedding, appropriately-named, worthless-to-everyone-but-her cat, Fluffy) – conservative – but not necessarily a gun-toting, bible thumping, racist redneck who loves war, hates peace, and wants to destroy the planet to line their pockets with blood money and kill anyone who doesn't look like them or believe what they do (although the bible-thumping is a point that could be easily argued) – and senile – she is senile in that “Get off my lawn (supposing you can call her humble vegetable garden that is constantly ravaged by snow rabbits and mountain lions and raccoons a lawn), you whippersnappers!” kind of way – hermit of a grandmother who enjoys sitting practically immobile in her rocker (which is surprisingly older than she is), the arch of its oak frame conversing with the mice beneath the floorboards, in front of the serene glow of her stone fireplace. Grandma and Fluffy will most likely die alone.