Exclamation of a fire-cracker, rat-a-tat-tat, some loud explosion or deafening crunch of magenta and blues, empathizing with the audience, the man blew blue flame from his nose and nostrils, out his windpipe a gullet of sonic fire, but in the living form of heat. A death-defying minstrel, placating the woes of an eternal god of force, the spellbound captivism set and gone as a roar upends their seats.
A tidal wave of clapping chairs and precision of iota, it was what it was, not a shade more or less, they found themselves years later, seated around a table, observing the past through optic lens, spying on the dreams of nights before.
The men had become what the women had always wondered, or one person to another, somehow beautiful and captivating, while being free of anything, and we loved it so much because it was free like ourselves. It tells me so it is what it is.
Be that as it may, any new information you can direct to Mr. Keith Bingham, 501 Jeans Ave, c/o telegram, one preferably with some candy, that’s cool, send that person there to accomplish this task. I will get back to you forthaste. Make it good candy, plz. Like, delicious candy, the kind that’s so wonderfully good, thanks.