In the hours twining, waning, settle in for what’s left of sark animal repose, and nifty kits, twined and gleaming, a new shtick for every kid who’s had the heart to not kick the other kid and cause a bix scene, and more animal magnets and jet lag and some airport gift or other and bursting at the seams, with cotton and stuffing and grit and shut-mouth promises. There wasn’t a work-around, or a griddle fit for failure, and the cookies was slim, but like the others you’ll make do in the less-rock harbor of your big-sea dreams.
Wandering toward a little bit, some regal crest of unknown tonnage makes way to center square with the gusto of Lynde and the frightening alacrity of Aiken, and leaves behind a scent, some plumage, and the idea of a friendlier now. Orgle the Muckmonger wants to seize your tiny ship, awash down with sips of Pibb, and gutted up on the shores of Gitcheegoomie Hootchie Koo.
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