To the chagrin of the motorbiking penguin-flipper, we carry old prairie weights for a regardless happenstance. Well, regardless, we’re quite unkempt for the situation–the scenario, if we will. But it’s okay, we’re all living some version of this or any other truths, not to be degraded for any reason or purpose.
The bellwether, or weather of bells–as I’d sometimes rather say–has stood in direct opposition to the canine point of equilibrium separating our ancestors from the ravenous wolves who once stormed down our doors for even just a hint of carnage. But times change. People grow and domesticate those pesky sheep they’d once only counted prior to slumber, involuntarily offering a small portion of their flocks to satisfy the taxation meted out by the gods that our dogs only wish they could be.
WHARVED 