Doxy eyes are wary of owner’s surprise—a box of too-long-and-too-wiggly chew toys that seem more a chest of serpentry in disguise. ; )

Cat’s TV is city center alive with bustle and glow, but if you form a mascon of peeps, kit’s taps may drop objects on your below. ; )

Golden hour calls for a genuine day as mettle to conquer begins to rise and soon board will brush waves of pinchbeck’s hue—a winner’s self-graph amid falling crests. ; )

Bubble-echo-ahem! The purpose of your fins is to schlep your porpoise to finally find fish—not to turn your torso so as to tickle my middle with your rostrum-pickle! ; )

Lambency plops, then, splashes. Dusk drops noir mist. Yellow radiates activity. Cutting the steamy dream, protensive bridge takes brights both in and out—as a round of the infinite town. : )