When tongue has finished up-lapping the waves of cymatics barks made in the water bowl, it is time too seek the lady with the goody bag, whose hands always have much affection to out-dole.

Her truelove could not be found in those kinds of posted pictures, but it could be found in this kind.

Patriarch pengies could not be sure if what they heard was either eggs hatching or beach decrepitating, so, regardless of the reason, they decided wearing the wintry waves on their waddlers was the day’s only way.

I wonder how my height-fearing date will respond to my sense of humour—having rickrolled him the directions to a park where our picnic is set atop a spiraled spire [of inspiration for the intrepid, of course].

Soon…