pragalagma

Fortune provides the backdrop for a play, one of sorts and chances, spotlighting you and a clam sandwich. When clowns and things urge constancy to the assembled mediators, a dog whips itself and shouts of "Hot Murder!" escape the lips of children far more asleep than adults. They are eyed with bracken bars and a spongy aftereffect of their parent's pretend shavings. No one there has a beard nor hair on the legs. And there are many who find disappointment in chicken's absence from the menu provided by the play's chef. She, along with her staff, are underpaid and surly with too many eggs to hatch. Times are hard for the play's negative space, and those fate has forced to dine off-stage. I have a captain of rabbits in a garment bag of wrapped kinesthetic. Habitually, I soak it in a brown comb jar. And find the resulting confection heady and intolerable. It is strictly for business only; I am not, repeat not, deriving neanderthals' urges. I know Christ personally. He is my savior and lives in a plant grown once a year for the amusement of God. It blooms petals of silver and you will catch fever if you think to lick on them.

Please make sure we all don't die.