She said the upper echelon provided her a view minus the perk of ignorance that made her colorize vanilla standalones now looped into a circuitry conspiratorially understood. There also was the issue of her mother and some blamelessness assigned out of convenience. Green visors made both of them feel very much supported and at home in their surroundings. Criminal neglect, though fosterable, challenged the alignment of the status quo, the system and amenities. Imagine how it was, had been, within the room where she was treated amicably. No longer a soprano. License fees draining the principal, to the extent that she was cardboard and afloat in tiers all midnight long. She had to get away, meaning the rigamarole failed to be transfigured once the clientele burned patterns in the screen. Although the igloo was oppressed by warm breath, it remained within the scope of the agreement of longevity. When you work for someone, you accept the healing in the windmill that propels the power. When you earn your living as a priest, you are already living in the afterlife. I am about to close my eyes. My eyes remain about to close. What's hanging on the line. She's listening too attentively. It's close, the air in here is close. Preambling its way to Heathrow. Just a couple floors away from numbered cloud.
Apology, wing wax, key tresses starting to define the shelves
Sheila E. Murphy | Invariation
Contents | Mudlark No. 8