Distance of Wafers, Progress of Food: these were our mottoes, so to speak, or at very least a way of life for our time. It served even the most tranquil and the most easily mislead of our number. And 'our' number, or any number at all, was growing. Who could doubt that without blinking for a reason of baking heat? The lights are not our friend. Because, you know what happens? A famous dance move is exposed as just so many apparently spastic movements, designed to make the young feel more 'at home' in their now-squalid skin. It speaks volumes as to the forced 'zest for living' which masquerades as a toothsome frolic for all to see, if only they could, which, those of us already on the inside have no trouble doubting, a sleep-deprived mother, no less. But, we're out of lids, the smallest first, the ones that fail to nick may have to wait to sit behind a wall and bleed.
A common misconception is all it now takes to achieve a virtual domain caper while results will be on view later in the evening. The pull of it is so very lively, but all at once the dust lacks a name and a word we tried thinking of is blank. The bluntness is what no longer thrills, if highlights are what you now devour even with a not-so-minor attitude problem. This is revealed either singly or in twos. A tone, a deft musk, soberly smelt and exogenously anointed with vim and panache (or could it, in fact, be 'panic'?). You dig? Grill me!
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