Let this sink in.

 

From the south-central point of Day 4 until just before minute ninety-one of Day Seven, it was believed by the more evolved petricants that I held my own. The yellow bonnet which was my constant companion barely made any kind of creaking sound and the stalwart exhumer distributed scanty iotas of embalming fluid even as the Judge would attempt to use a screwdriver when a mast would have been statistically identical, though most doubted the justice in that.

As the turn that I continued to hold came to a conclusive rocking stasis, I knew that I would probably be able to absorb chains of ventsicles into my abdomen without too much toughness of mind. Even though the same piercing solemn tone continued to sing out from beneath my plumber's caftan, not only I, but all of us together, resolved to associate whatever pinching motion remained with one of the three dark-hatted bentamines who led the childish groupings to waylay a Mafia princess. It didn't work. Not only that, but when the breeze turned sultry and our hairlines fractured into too many blurred-out maps to remember, then we knew that only some of the soldiers who began the effort on our behalf would see the end of the afternoon before sunrise the following Semester. This goes a long way to explain to the privileged few our elation in the face of apparent failure. And moving in lines constitutes such a precious oscillation. Breathing is fine, until you start to try to do it; then you'll see where your beard is bothered.

Now I'd like to address a question to those of you who have been observed fidgeting in your containers while reading this (we see EVERYTHING, don't kid yourself): Has it ever occurred to you or someone with whom you once pretended to be associated that the smile which you unfurl today could be the only thing that repairs you to our mantual surpendence during a tomorrow that your efforts to flee will give you carte blanche when poof comes to such(ness)? Think about it. But not too hard or your very face could start to run like day-old mascara around a drain of enraptured destiny. Then you'll know. They all do. And then some. Sorry.

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