The voice comes to her in intervals as unpredictable as roundworms on a covered gate. A prestigious central para-limb cycles in a background thrush but commingling provocatively was ever to be a thing of an all too brief past. The voice's origin at times appears to be a set of antique fan blades recovered from a natural logic pile brought into disgrace one infinitesimal figment at a rhyming pre-test no-go zone. At other times, seemingly years away in the distance, a rasping chode will appear and now the voice is stilled, but only as foxes traipse to avoid a duet of done and done, no questions muttered, some answers approved.
If we stand back to avoid a tittering offhand theft bargain, the bentument could inspire grieving in couples who stand to benefit (in spades) from a natural insurgency, provided a chafed rim is seen as dodgy in a multiplied external dragnet of psychopomps. This is where, one by three by seven, the blakes who call 'noun' a home are disappointed but preen nonetheless, as even a stipend exfoliates a nursery bondage protocol. From where we sit, it all goes with a fink and a knob; our struggles are wispy, the vein throbs and our home is inundated, profoundly so, by plorticated milk dotted by floating pictures of food in caves.
But if this is to be the beginning, then what is to be the shortest bone fragment to isolate its end in the flesh-worshipping parallels to life in a wasp? Your slotted membrane is at rest while a shrill reply code is effected by the one and only sloping tractate ploy. Be willing to adjourn this semi-conscious nematode to an unused room in your dream-house of the future. It will suit all who crave a position in time to lurk with barely oscillating gristle. And this is why you love her, mysterious voices or not. Grant a slip. Please and thank you. Ya velk!
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