It was summer in the early year, as always, and the sun was stiff in its cloud, undoubtedly oblivious. Then the larks came in hordes, bridging the gap between mortality and celestial stars, and they sang. The clouds jostled into the cracks, the forgotten crannies, and they grew, and the larks left, and the sun was a pawn in their hands, and it rained.


-


They were there. Pendulums swinging their heavy curved paths, going somewhere, reaching somewhere, never knowing which was which until- stop. Some breath of life there, oh, there was? The pendulum either paused, or reached, didn't know. Passed through the gaps to discover, returned came returned came, and the pendulum started swinging.


it's swingin' it's swingin' it's swingin'.
and oh can't it stop again.


And she was blatant, the abused metaphors, crude oil to make a fine dish. Hey it almost worked. Her mood, horribly versatile, either this, either that. Compromise enter, oh but it just smoothed over the wrinkles and the creases, but they're still there.


oh, wow.


-


-hugs-
hey Greg, hey Mary-Anne.