ever changing font with gasps and chasms and lapses and spasms and the old with the new all imbued with lost hues and for whatever reason I'm not as yet sued for the run on puns all done right tightly rinsed of chin offals and officials and peripherals and infinitesimal spells of quelling spelling stammer clams oh damns and the bans on glands wouldn't you know all aglow and lowing woeful in the mouthful of blows
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Monday, April 22, 2013
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
It's now down to six minutes; six minutes to add a pertinent tome or form to shape the way the outlook will... shit, now it's five minutes or so. Five minutes to envelope the remaining time with something prosaic or lovely as one gazes out the window, seeing colors slowly emerge from the... shit, four minutes left. Four minutes to scribe the light, script the hey, slow the morning process down to... shit, three minutes. Three ways to frown, three to glower, that eventual shower, powder noses, whatever, what all means to approach a day of deeds and... shit, two minutes. Not much left to say or grapple in terms of mulch; fertilizer or adage. Shit. A minute left. That's about all one can do before the hour strikes Greenwich mean time subscription and subservience. Ah well, so it goes... shit, I'm done.