You must have returned from bathing in petroglyphs; there, your stories became punch lines: even they don’t like you anymore without the bandages.
I overheard you want your grave to be splendid. Henry, if only the sky had real estate — acre by acre, the Universe purchasable using PayPal. You could be sure you will not be long-gone light; a slave to speed.
But, dear, you don’t have a passport and I’d really like to spend this Christmas in Rome. In my safe deposit box there’s this garment bag, see, it holds seventy-nine prairie dresses.
It holds more than one way to tell time; on each, the second hand ticks a clue to evolution.
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