Coati wears no coat—just a light jacket of fur—for there is no fear in coati of a connixation of a situation through which coati would need to thusly endure.

Strewn sheets supplement sleep sacks set in sun, setting a scenographic space for swevens’ slumbering, if not snoring, souls.

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. ; )