Ink-black sky swirls of questioning posters echo, whispers disguised as pamphlets. Perhaps fear weeds beautiful, creeps through sunlit rage. None want dull eggs. Except the ceilidh [an impromptu session].
Angular polydactyls gracefully fight against the whimsical storm, their fates veiled beneath phantom feathers. Lose passion never does it explain.
The clock wilted into cobalt dust, running low on self-esteem, the morning sipped from shattered glass. Can biscuits breathe?
An unbelievable world stirred the mind like dandelions pouring from covenant rituals. Adventure cries yield fruits. Search lion-skin baronies within directories.
—Annals of Green Tea, consorting with leeches of yearning.