We followed our pillowcase tendons. A sudden appearing drought upon air. As if to say thou knowest me not. Here, here supple friend. These piercing sighs pittering, pattering; drawn out stares one might otherwise leave slightly fallen. Aye, says I.
For the better of us is often crooked. Foul shades leaping from mirror to mirror, forgetting its intention on the plane. Coloring reds and yellows into the belly of us. And even so...the mild child's eyes. Bright, weary, aged, unsullied. Speak with but a whisper they say. However, the ocean never refused a shout. One cannot hear themselves yelling into that abyssal sepulcur.
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