the spore of aging thymus lands and humps of consequential assuage, well, them digs wouldn't coffer a heap of likely, hoods, cloaks, and coverslips not withstanding, all out and out you were (we weren't) for a day's debriefing, a longing, a lowing, a mining murk amid scalloping clouds, this day with her or his or its gentle hum to the bristle and a pew therein to sits the eats (stomach's full), and the i's over u's under towed and lush, imagined coughing, stammer-stares, or the busloads of day-off, old, sullied and forlorn, save for a libel suit or corn starch hamper, hemmed din, chattering whorls, a squirm or two, acorn-toothed, leafing and fabled, wrinkled perhaps, taking on jobs like soldering or becoming a cabbie or a dashing-type, an every which way kind of guy, unfettered, hardly perturbed by the doughy justification of cosmic lances or cartoonish fonts, the under-typed scores for footnotes bespoke, an idea contrariwise to the next research-able tree, spree, or a leeward gaze, of a kind not exactly spritely, nor hairy eyed, and while as stark as these subjects were, I mean, whistling though it was (that kind of day) I farted a whole lot whilst on the meditative "thing", and goodly though it was, one couldn't tamper with the day, nor take mecca tantrum and hide respite (the why-way (my-way, hi-way, and so forth) so slung singing), and brazen and brandished (the legs do you well, my friend, what length!), what for better than? to etch a state of framing the siting, mind seats (it's real) and, as a reality nod, go garish, garnished, and logged, greedily one takes it all it in (I did my best), (to not be a hog)
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