Day 10
Wicked strength be told, the blog dome is hoisted by a dead beam of plastic pretense,
while a tender is tirelessly tracked in its tree-circling spin-lust, measuring its distance from the
pointless arboreal nest like a Mars Ave nanny. As I, soporpa of the crunching underfoot,
wield letter spreaders in dancing doodles of dribbling thought. Is it for the peace of
empty box transfers that I seek my quirkyalone thoroughfare lastly,
falling at once from the key of B with five sharps to the frank and genial C?
I can but re-tie Google, since pages end up dealt deftly down.
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