Raise high the roof beam carmenders and eff seymour. This never meant to be any kind of novella or even an old vella. The etude has landed and everywhere there is chaos in the chorus line. You got your Bahrain, you got your driverless boys to men; you've even got Scarlet in Shamuland but over here it's all geraniums and shampooed carpets. These legs keep reminding me that my fictional electric scooter is watching me for selection as most congenial. I can't tolerate pissy when it's me who's magnifying the snubs. I wrote the essay on standardizing fascination and yet I have to go here to vent the disappointment. Even if tomorrow the bruises disappear and I boogaloo like Astaire on steroids, today I sing this song because it's June 1 already. I see good things on the horizon and that's because it's all good all the time.

Spaces are the vogue in comfort for readers.

But minutiae is still just that. I survive because my drive is still alive and I revive from what I contrive for the archive of my list of what I connive.

I can't stand when all I come up with is this crap. Point is: all I'm capable of today is dogdirt.