A Time of Testing.

This long delayed Water Celebration, for in truth it was only coming to us due to the effects of one increasingly absent circumstance, would now be upon us in full force if only because the other lacks could not be focussed upon. But, try as we may--and we did!--all the formerly youngest Officers, having erected the very thing which we've come, with no justification whatsoever, to fear inordinately, are now quite literally exploring an opening which hasn't even appeared yet. By dots, which obscure insatiable lines, we stroke their wires for meager rhinds, the plastic revolvers of which go some ways to helping us to become aware, as nonces must make do as the nomenclature of choice. Where will they get our voundas to stretch? In substitution for which we will delay our third time for the peace of children in situations.

But the goad to a final reversal is only and ever a prim and deciduous sound. Resembling a cough crossed with the negation of a twig, some of the older ones hear it just prior to retiring. I myself, while accompanying my elderly daughter to a clinic appointment, was quite convinced that the latter half of our assemblage was giving testimony in this format. Eighty-one birds were counted on three successive days near the Third Hole. My Commandant evinced a series of increasingly nervous urinations. Near a movie theater, under an abandoned truck, or even inside a revolving enemy structure. The price to be paid, not in blood this time, but--you guessed it!--'qualification tickets', absorbed through the skin the way any well behaved moppet should. But sink ye in foreblocks? Not (just) saying...

In more granular times, they opine about the truth in shityards. Some others will bevel and squawk, even though the squarish jaw tromps all vantasias for the vain to revile our lerquids. But our own loam forms a coating upon which to inscribe any less then intolerable undertone and then exit the scene like a whipped icon of a cunning pith. Your own biprective inductions are coming into question, even as the documents foretell a measly babbling turret. A tradition of abuse at the melting point of titanium cannot provide cover for each of your pandistic bromads to lead the sequence of chills. For that we call on a succulent cat and its seven companion moles. Each is described in a separate paper. The paper in on file with our person. The person is assumed to be no longer alive. What living there once was is now thought to be an outmoded barbarity. And, if any of the remaining pirates could talk, this would not be their message. For that, any other party would have to turn in place and receive a junction near their upper head. If so, success is assured. Don't test us.

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