There's a moon fluttering somewhere behind the clouds...
There were two blue moons in June... and what are pristine fables?
The profane printed word forgets that it has a history of forgotten footnotes.
It pains you when you try to break a tiresome routine, the disciplined footfall of returning journalists descending slowly as snails, climbing a limb for a limb, down to pack themselves in the cars that lead to nowhere except tomorrow's return...
Now that i've decided it's not my world, why do i fumble?
Go slow dear fish... you're making lots of bubbles.
