Day 57
8/29/2006
It could be that hunched figure over a typewriter. Or wielding a quill pen. Or typing into a laptop on top of a lap.
Throughout this orb, terra denizens don caps of muse to gush and spew, a trendamonium nouveau
of post-yore time, and yet find we no trumpet-call of shock graphic to shoot up the neurons of the
mumble-dumbling Ovis Aries dotting the Elysium to horizon's eventuality.
When words wend with west wind wafts watercrafts where whale world winds whither wonders will wave,
the mind is thus blessed fed with fuel of language-thought, and storage reigns discrete and discreet.
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