Out of context everything looks good. Onions, inclemency, rotundas. Whipsaw mercy, yodeling. A manufactured friendship operatta milestone. Rubricity enflowers pasty nuns (how would it seem to be alike). Siphoned intrusion, forensified wide lute as warm as stippled mill tax. Actuarial tables pressed to my chest, your chest, her chest. Gender needs no eyesight. Fortify fuss-budgetly the aftermath of no-show. Trap me in my own words (of our making). Literate new swells advancing cause in miserere overtones. The organist was clobbered by insistent sprinklers en route to the off-key church. Her letter said she shoulders things. She basks. She rub-a-dubs accord when geeks leave limericks along her doorstep with a whippoorwill to dandle like a hive homespun.
Semantitude, foxglove, decision point of our own making
Sheila E. Murphy | World Flow
Contents | Mudlark No. 8