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. ; )

“Bullwinkle, Bullwinkle, your bestest pal needs a boost after experiencing an unexpected brenschluss.” “We can still stop that dastardly duo sans my Rocky power—for the advantage point will be mine from your head’s twisty tower.” ; )

Nearing to your individual warms better than wearing cozed coats layered with wadmal. ; )