Neither will peacock’s palpebra blink nor will its tail feathers unshrink until peahen agrees to never again wink at the standee of the sea set in pink. ; )

Look, you metagrobolized menace of misplaced milieus, I said you needed to put the plant where it could engage in photosynthesis with air, not where you could take a photo of it sitting in this chair.

And, for most, love is the cherry on top of life’s sunniest sun days, brining harmony to the tune of two in sync, but, for others [off the record], haemony would be preferred as days’ caps rather than buddiest berries—for amore, for them, is more of a moor than a field of blossoming blooms to adore. ; )

Waving with friends rides a most priceless crest, never bought even by bulse of the best.

Mishpocha’s comfortings may up-light life when days dole out dark, but self’s inner brilliance remains the foundation of strength stark.