I can be funnier than you. Purists, nudists, gravel placates nerves. Pulchritude, a word scheming as buxom does for a sensible language. I take advantage in italics. There is beauty: black bough on snow; a straight line; shore line, life—hello?
The effort of breathing is to get to the point: fate. Alas, a plot begins with future as character. This morning a ship entered my eyes moving so slowly I did not notice I was twisting my body. I know you are thinking, breast.
Lately, the world swivels at will and I find I shut my eyes tight.
Photo credit: Claudia Currie-Gleason