Yellow swan dumpling.

Half a shoe lace later, eighty seven angry chairs looped around a nearby nuclear plant – fables told myths of cranberry rams, but to no avail.

Without revealing its bright history, March stood on a hill, away from a market. Absent from the ocean ballot, approximately fifteen schools of fish and schools of buses collided to form a dynamic cornucopia of fever dreams. Emilia grasped for strawed hats and the transcendental became null. Null.

Everything was calm after that day. On Grapefruit Hill, five of them dissected the situation and found the jury guilty of doing the judge’s job. With seven vacancies now available, the hydrogen peroxide could finally work effectively. It was a domino game and a half until Saturn aligned, but my thoughts never did.

“N O T H I N G,” exclaimed Matters, ruefully. It was a sad affair at the sad fair’s said affair. With everyone in attendance, Charles finally felt free enough to proclaim his true sways; a Mormon at heart, but a cardboard cut out beneath the curtain. His uncle was an iron farmer, and the crows would circle-square-x over head, waiting for a slip up (or down).

A millennia after, and before, Andy would find truth and love. With nobody to weep his lamentations to, he turned to M. Angelo’s work, ‘The Still Mattress’, circa. 2019 (?). A Sultrian at left ventricle, he sought the stars advice.

“Urt artiri luuk,” murmured the angry magician to the concrete audience – nobody gasped. Only a hundred years ago, you could find a newspaper in an attic. Nowadays, attics hardly e x i s t.

Finally, a word from a paralegal:

“You might wake up today confused and lonely. That’s okay, I assure you. Imagine a Frog March, and attempt a coup; there’s nothing like lukewarm tea on a lukewarm night. If every person you ever allowed a chance to cross the state bridge was a fire hydrant officiant, there would be an arrest.

Hold tightly to glyphed words: The ancient astronauts sauntered casually across what we now call the Atlantic, but did so with little recourse or fear of the unknown. Pig Latin was not invented in a day, but a night. A lonely, tired, quiet, lucid, boring night.”