Monday, January 23, 2017

when the vista smells like an anorak

The left side is wanting to count to eleven, divide the existential from the inexistential, and to ensure that there is fairness.

The right side wants to play Pictionary, fly a kite and have an impassioned discussion concerning oatmeal.

I am on neither side; in the center I'd simply like to have a nap.

It would be particularly odd if the even numbered of my nose hairs took up telecommunication with all of the antlers found this side of 93 degrees East.

The ice cream machine danced a jig.

All of the staplers in the world, when mixed with street fungus in a soup bin made of leather,