Olivia’s oppidan offering obfuscated.

Ordering one ornateless object oriented on overseeing oneiric ocean outclassed other’s opulently ordinary option. ; )

If a dubious dizzard were to believe that all boobies were blue

And they thought this idea while standing in a yellow-bellied hue,

Then they would be the truest booby to whom all such credit is due

[Even lizard digesting in gizzard during blizzard thinks so too]. ; )

Cary left the cabin in search of a space where she could let her skin feel breaths of the sea; she found sounds unproduced—chirps of birds, splash-plops of waves, guttural gusts—balanced her mind before it went into performance mode, where the most ‘natural’ element she would hold close would be the colophony in her case. Playing was her passion; it was not in any way otherwise. She felt powerful and she felt pride as notes so precisely plucked as planned. The violin was her exhale—the veranda, her inhale. Between the two is where balance found her. ; )

Simon finally let me take out the boat as the sole skipper. I had been training with him for a year plus months and my skillset had earned a status sufficient enough to take the wheel. About what I was still uncertain, though, was why he insisted we depart after the set of sun—the view most worthy of a horizon heading. I had seen the glow times before and I was hoping to renew the experience as the captain rather than the kid. But, Simon was insistent, so we left the harbour as the others were returning. With a heart as flat as the waves we cut, we sailed into the dark—where water ever so slowly began to turn lambent under the arriving moonlight. *SPLOSH*…*SPLOSH-SPLOSH-SPLOSH* Whatever was that??? The water had been still. I looked toward the sound and, as my chest resuscitated, tears began falling—those of joyous, humbled amazement. Dolphins. Dancing. Everywhere. Simon gently nudged me to the side and took the helm; he knew. What I had not known was that Simon had sailing’s technacy down to a capital T—and I had a long, long way to go. There was more to it than knots and tides and wind directions and sheets and jibs. There was more to it than even the eldest, most expert sailor would know. No manual or course could ever teach what I had learned that day. I knew how to sail and I even knew what to do in cases of chaos. What Simon had taught me that dusky eve—the lesson I still needed—was that it was never about what I knew or what I could do…it was about being both open and okay—and, to be hoped, even excited—about the idea of discovery beyond capable currents. ; )

Claws Mewnet seeks milk for life number nine

To cool moqueca’s spice on which he’ll dine

As this French feline of abstract design

Wraps last brushes of vivid verd of line—

For when you are of stature all too klein,

Faint can’t paint art worth meowster’s opine. ; )