Wind blows change, leaving strands amiss and the pomade that could help hold their composure uninvented due to the erosion of ordoliberalism from present-day policies.

Amma’s finger-combs are ever welcome-wished, but in this enclave of headwearless homosapiens, even the hatters turn madders if asked, off-brushing any who seek to brush-burrow.

So, eyes to the skies—through swooshing tails—catch comets letting theirs fall too; and, the asterisms by which they pass blink hellos followed by a courteous-thankful adieu. ; )

Categories: Melange

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