She raced down the boulevard, 03:02. Summer was a trail of marigolds glued to her skies.
An alarm clock sings the lullabies of lost Pandora boxes.
Do not forget the velvet whispers of October, where every leaf was a memory fading tidally.
The telephone rang off the galaxy, calling for aviator frogs in orange sneakers tipping Hey Jude's skies.
The museum curator wrote haikus in sand while time drifted past rubbery palettes of pastels.