Twigs of garments and garments of twigs denied the right of passage in the night of the faint shelter with provisions for only silken liniments.
Twice favored, Meredith slipped toward the cellar door, which didn’t budge an inch against her gentle pull. Consumed with consommé from lunch, Meredith ignited a detached filament with the pangs of youth and the angst of middle age. Pillars of elongated pillows softened the blow, for Meredith was not one to take a beating sitting down–nor standing up neither.
Ensconced in pillars of silken elongated pillows was more her style for taking a beating. Beat me again, oh cellar door! Refined gentlemen withered at the thought and instead called for more pillows, more silk, more lichen imported from the northern tundra. Transfixed, teases of tipsy travesties bellowed across the pillows, the pillars, the cellar door, but at the first sign of lichen, the cellar door budged an inch.
Meredith, enlightened by elongated pillows of silk lichen, declined to recline but rather sprawled jauntily all twiggy night long.
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If only
If and only if.
Mostly
heart
Darkness
The abyss of Abyssinia, drinking absinthe.
And that damn dog
There’s no right way to eat a rhesus.
Stop monkeying around
Right turn, Clyde.
So funny!
Gwen.
🙂