Enter into a ceremony of dog-eating-dog world occurrences, far enough to scrape together a lightener of dire consequences. Bother nobody too much or too many insowhere is the predilection of the ages, the constant ever-ridden ideology capable of destroying planets or hydrogen elements, now or forever in scraps, taken like pills after breakfast every morning with some cantaloupe, spoiled as chimney scraps for someone filled with more than an evening’s worth of chicken. There’s a faint spill visible across continental America named Mauna Loa, something that needs improvement for a spritz or two, charred like a gopher spiel of some varying strength, at least graphically so.
I really wish I could use my arms.
WHARVED 