09-30-2016, 06:07 AM
don't write hungry
in one golden moment the setting sun
transformed a telescoping road
into magnificent miles of marmalade
in one golden moment the setting sun
transformed a telescoping road
into magnificent miles of marmalade
I am a bit brain dead today 
... not a long distance runner. I did use every single word to make a story though 
-->
... not a long distance runner. I did use every single word to make a story though -->
In one golden moment the setting sun transformed the narrow path before me into telescoping miles of marmalade road. I ventured lazily along this dreamy passage while overhead the wind was tumbling in bursts through sleepy branches barely finished shedding. I stopped in the garden underneath the hanging sticks, their fitted fingers locked in hopeless puzzles, and earnestly began to cry about the letter I received yesterday.
You see, I sent my gallant lover a bottle of sherry and silk stockings by carrier pigeon, but it mixed up the longitude portion of the directions and my presents were lost when the pigeon hastily spiraled downwards and splashed into sea where it drowned. And so my offended lover, having never received the gifts, in a savage letter accused me of antipathy and sent me a vial of poison lodged in a wooden mouse.
I begged for pardon with fountains of tears pattering down my face in ringlets. Bristling with indignation, he punished my trotting beasts by shrinking their whiskers with a knife. I thought it brave of him to so splendidly escape any measure of forgiveness from me. In return, I fitted his curious cats into the cupboards (lured by a saucer of milk) and refused to answer his questions about my knowledge as to the geography of their lodging. He brought up the time I, with a curtsy, corrected his grammar aloud in front of the entire school, to a degree limiting his potential jobs. I pulled the rug out from under that argument and caused his house of cards to tumble by reminding him that he would now be alone in all the earth simply because he believed my truth to be grand nonsense dished out in spades.
You see, I sent my gallant lover a bottle of sherry and silk stockings by carrier pigeon, but it mixed up the longitude portion of the directions and my presents were lost when the pigeon hastily spiraled downwards and splashed into sea where it drowned. And so my offended lover, having never received the gifts, in a savage letter accused me of antipathy and sent me a vial of poison lodged in a wooden mouse.
I begged for pardon with fountains of tears pattering down my face in ringlets. Bristling with indignation, he punished my trotting beasts by shrinking their whiskers with a knife. I thought it brave of him to so splendidly escape any measure of forgiveness from me. In return, I fitted his curious cats into the cupboards (lured by a saucer of milk) and refused to answer his questions about my knowledge as to the geography of their lodging. He brought up the time I, with a curtsy, corrected his grammar aloud in front of the entire school, to a degree limiting his potential jobs. I pulled the rug out from under that argument and caused his house of cards to tumble by reminding him that he would now be alone in all the earth simply because he believed my truth to be grand nonsense dished out in spades.
The Soufflé isn’t the soufflé; the soufflé is the recipe. --Clara