A Rightness of Existence.

Never having thought much about what was 

involved in this decision, Ramona Burkmire 

scuttled swiftly through the complex, a barely 

troubled brow marking her as a newly fluid victim 

of time in the shade. Moving forward in an up-again 

down-a-pin morality play could only get her settled, 

and then between the couch and the sink, something 

might turn up to cause a rightness of existence to 

manifest once again, but not if her half step-uncle 

Jorbert Flurzhilk had anything to say about it, 

which he did, copiously so.

Therefore the religion that alternately 

comforted and tormented her would 

now be merely a 'thing' to chew over 

when all else seemed unremarkable. The 

stiversity that was her former mode, now 

all but forgotten was to become, in the hands 

of a rational actor, just a pittance withheld on 

demand for peanuts or less. 

But what of it? Who could suspend this tragisty 

but Helmond the Denier? The possibility of 

training a team of subpar nihilists at silly tricks 

in the afternoon was now the last, best alternative 

to seeking a roiling grip on factors beyond her 

ken. A chain is winning, paid-for coasts 

notwithstanding. No fear this time. 

A boring trick, at that.

What could it be? Instant hair you say? 

A dried oval is nothing to cry over, 

is what we're saying. It will consist of 

nothing less than a Porous Frond Allegiance. 

A training period followed by a resting sloan. 

You will find the dampness progresses by 

innate intervals, a shroud at three: only the 

second thimble wins the breast. A daily 

pattern is set. All that's left is to visit a park 

deftly, forgoing a patch to claim a cloud 

at four. You have been reified: Now OWN IT!!  

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