Was my inner dialogue imagining someone else’s scortatory senses say “blew” and “ribbed” instead of “blue” and “ribbon” as the large package was wrapped for her enjoyment—or was it my own twisted thoughts tickling myself pink with temptuous think?

His heart of gold may have ruled his actions, but their intentions rarely resulted in reward, so, in addition to becoming broke—like the inevitable fate of any chrysocracy, he was also left deeply blue.

Quacks of the clouds disperse at the sound of a gun whilst medicasters on rounds up and leave when patient patients become none.

Pressed close enough, escape by portrait becomes pass via panorama, though it is not lights below, but, rather, those from the sky that ignite ponderings of panspermia to explain some of who, what, and why.

Perhaps, it may be bring more luck to celebrate the year of the feline rather than the year of the bun—for when life’s triffids begin stinging their toxins, cats will nip whereas rabbits will run.