Peteroo's Blog

If contemporary style merits status as a hyperobject, are our markings shared beyond this place, endlessly mirroring us?

Whether our character parts are inborn or borrowed of fondness, presentation is decisory per day, free to change feathers as it may.

Bird sounds colour from the earthiest plumage as do thoughts from soul black-dressed. Lese majesty for book covers judged is easily dismissed.

Seeking early crawlers and burly lawyers stands as quite a task. Our charms prefer a challenge, so gullible ones need not apply.

To what ends have the two in the bush made, it is not wondered. What matters is in the palm of hand: confidence in one’s own show. ; )

Bubble maker, what have you created today? Orogeny may have lifted its mountain a bit higher, but I am more impressed by the soapy shapes formed by your circled wire.

Has a bubble ever landed on your tongue and, if so, what was its flavour? I would guess it to be salty or bitter, but you spilled dopiaza in the detergent and claim umami is how these savour?

Oh! The juggler of flame and blade tried to shanghai you into his show? Well, I am glad you turned him down because pops are pleasant, but more so are watching bubbles both blow and grow. ; )

I told the mush to meet me by the girl in the bowler hat hanging behind the pine. Perhaps they have not yet arrived due to either yield or stopping sign.

This katzenjammer has me yearning for pillows, blanket, and bed, but if I am to go out like this, I appreciate my eyes will last see these baby blues before turning dead.

Fuzzy brain is reeling and aspin, but epiphanies are also in tow, realising ecocides destroy places while emo-sides artfully uplift locays with their show.

Does that honk mean I have been found and will soon with pillows lay? Cry not, dear lady, for we shall meet again–perhaps, quite soon–as franc in pocket will neither gabelle nor home fare pay. ; )

Blue berries may be either the ones left behind to dry and shrivel or they may be the ones broken by a hungry beak, a veritable point which such fruits can never escape: sadness.

Cubes remain firm in their recusancy to never circle around the truth: to be a sphere is not a state a dimensional square can bear.

Abstract cogitations must work with deductive ones when developing a conlang that is both novel and precise.

Texture of ‘nduja on toast leaves tongue tingling and wanting more noshes. ; )

About what do cat dreamers wish? Would they decline fetching a throw-stick in order to nosh on a fish?

For what do feline friends hope? Surveying from a tree nine cubits high or scratching a post wrapped in rope?

How does puss get to that for which he yearns? Does he tootle ahead or jumpity-split as if tail burns?

When will tabby get that which is sought? Must he best doggone world’s kriegspiel or mew, purr, and rub legs a lot? ; )