baking hockey sticks into

Mesmerisingly slow, wielding stealth much like an ear splitting herron call mimicks the bark, not of a dog, but of a tree. That crying foul at the lake changes nothing concerning its altitude. That slinking away without notice is the modus operandi. That being the Maybe of an individual, or the most or the loss. Combine it all together into a shelved lantern that sounds like a mid-pitch bell ringing off rhythm. Turn the lantern on, or turn it off.