Reading Ulysses in Montana #335
Small ships with hostile intentions surrounded souls with recoiling benevolence and silent friends.
Propitious potions forgot to stew the frog legs before lagging pretty within an inch of their one and only apologies, apologizing for all the whims of her cordial seas. Customs of custard and languages of laggards administered the wrath of neglected bounds, dried under self-same vessels.
Lashed eyeballs waved with satin consent, gladdened by the fondled doorway of prayers and gnashed lotion. Motions disheveled by the chorus of roses rose in pity to touch the knob of enameled cake. Kept past the holy date of expiration, the weathered pear curled to its own credit.
The phoenix rose again in the east, a quirk of fate not yet corrected by artificial intelligence–or any other form of intelligence–while the sovereign ambition kept friends and taxes at bay for the running of the seventh at Richmond, just outside Burnham wood.
Small ships constructed entirely from Burnham wood wore derelict frames of the lost souls of bagpipes and haggis…but no more.
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Very nice.