Each new milieu feels as comely as the last because what remains the same are snaps of you pinned to my periphery.
That our playful shenanigans never catch us trouble is evidence that we are bonny to the perfect degree and, as well, never cloyed.
Megrims ever remain at bay regardless of word counts ready to say—and whether or not those convos would print text or tome.
What is developing underneath is a heart trading drummer for voltigeur. Incessantly. Over and over again. Then, twixt the turns and tumbles, a wonder if it is true. ; )