Under the borrow grove lies the wrathful wraith of written writings past, present, and future. It descends the depths and the heights of the hierarchy of life. Indeed. Deed in. Outside. Die. Stou. Detestful. Detestfully, we rest our wary minds upon a rock. The rock has moss and is soft and fluffy, as moss is. In the orange twilight our thoughts turn to the purple twilight and the magenta twilight. Red twilight and green twilight abound, where is the blue twilight?
In these eventful days we look for what has happened and what will happen, but do we stop to think what is happening?
Now
A time
A place
is it a place?
It's a constant
A reminder.
A message.
A floating bottle
Where does the tide take us on days like today? Where do the winds blow us away? What wheat weeps when we whistle? Asunder the thistle. Rumble like a bongo drum. Hats off to the otters.
Despite the righteousness of some of my previous statements, I've never given myself the moral high ground. Maybe I should.
All the heathens and the heresers and the Hershey bars and the snacks, all the quick cat naps and the dreams and the frost and the snaps, all the mundane and the written and the spoken and the feared, all the noise and the busy people that cheer, all the house was quiet--even the mouse, but what about Jerry?
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