Washing on the Pretty Line

I'd like this hive configured for the Olivetti, please sir, perfect for my thumbs. The crescent lipwear bottling up indifference the same centrigrade as all the worthy time zones in our sphere. There are roster fees to build upon, and scales to leverage shade trees and their valences. The shoelace portion of our program sees the dust accumulation near the fiber climb down furniture and speed traps. Homilies won't work the numbers. Silence thumbs its way clear to the park and back to what you think is home in your own words. I'd like to merchant my way forward, not be littled here in slide trombone capacity with battery-dependency and tales to tell. Besotted lives are dearthy in the nearby window. See the plain wide booths with the reputed merchants drinking coffee. Not one of them unless you live here has been named apology. Create one, says the priest, and live a better form of thriving in the dreamful haze of washing on the pretty line, the atmosphere of one redemption at a time.

Lozenge after lozenge, some particulars, routine the way my offering congeals after a fashion

Sheila E. Murphy | Faith
Contents | Mudlark No. 8