i have set fog up unto death as like an ax to a plane tree. it
lessly targets the pleuritic than the cozened weak. we act as
an erstwhile plot of mere piles, glutted with thoughts of draco
nian seething. more mere reductions of mist than really is
right-o, love. we’re walking in the rain, we two. it matters
(we, too!). our needs, umbrellas: one big, one small. wheeze
american (being of or in the fog). taking our luxury laps, we
talk to death of pleurisy, a hyperbolic hypo into the moist
which stews with vulnerable fog citizens. no semi-axed budget
cut removes a straight man from mere mist! other men merely
love, rotting in nothing but congress and desperation. we, more
kardashian than verity, don’t mind all of the perforated talk bub
bles. the houses elephant and ass cheer and jeer for more years
(four?!) of tax; progress and affluents decrease exponentially.
