In some ways I am buttoned-up and in some ways I am not, but I would definitely consider an offer to duet with Elton John backed by gamelan as an expression worthy of my impression. ; )

Peacock heard her cachinnate when he displayed his tail ornate, so he plucked and dropped each plume to the ground because he could not handle her rejection sound. But, then he felt mad at his sad, realising the hen was not worth his lad—for his decor was ever meant for his own design and not a peabrain over whom his class should ever pine. ; )

Doryphory hides beyond where sun glides into moon’s tries—of setting sky’s leaves softly afloat, mirroring sea’s frothy breathes—above which Dory places her dream’s story to please. ; )

Morning, news.

Which to choose?

Pop sings for the masses.

Out-of-print gives no hint.

Tragedy of gossip.

Comedy of errors.

Head lines up for alpha-anxiety.

So, lucky are the luculent ones, who read only what they need—sips of sin—to balance the inner wonderments, observations, and analyses that flourish forth blessed harks to the day, keeping dark starts both at bay and to a min. ; )

Failed by telekinesis and paralysed by gelid appendages refusing tasks outside their comfort coop, eyes begin to droop, sending wishes to dreams for a date as a more wearable warmth, perhaps, instead, as a morsel of vushka—heated by cuddles of dough whilst bobbing in a sauna of soup. ; )