all those furrows in the brain, that’s how it mushes together up there.
and what sorts of ploughs would you need to row a steady crop of thornbushes (with roses pasted on) or some other salutary crop. dunno.
feeling haberbashed or cornswoggled for no discernible.
there was a halting sort of–
as though the teardroppings kept–
but even now the things get off track and elegant.
or no, not elegant.
some other elevated word.
hush hush, the clabberbeast is roiling through the area.
and though that area is about as unclearly defined as can be, never fear, that’s a thing to be aware of, as much as.