Twinkle and Whist. Blocked oversights, over-sights. Hills drip, curl, rove. Trip. Walk upwards before backwards back flipping a loft ripping yelping streams of cream. Thor’s clouds sit higher up, twitching downwards on yellowing themes. Muttering fleetness, enjoying times well past. And I. I plundered on the two?
Hey, maybe an unanswered equation. Possibly, possible? A behaver-able issue I don’t persist or a cowardly position unknown and unforgettable…