Crumple up the knees, leeches are on the left nostril and working their way back into the right ear. Batting does no good as half of the pain is imaginary. And as all gnomes know, there is nothing more wretched than the imagination. Gnomes, apparently, sprout up in the most moist gardens of all places. An appearance in the bare scratch that lies the plains is most obscene for the scene of pale green.
Frenzy is nothing short of a circuit cut loose and tapping into the veins. Paths lead to all sorts of places, as the paces of cohorts trip up the wires and wrap them neatly, tightly and ever so rightly around the necks of the wrinkled few. A spot of water and it's the dash into the dew which renders the appearance of things a slightly crinkled affair.
Affairs of the heart, where the soul takes a trip into the side and walks the merry path of thinking the first of days is here to stew and stay. Grip it tight and stroke the air clean out, them leeches be done now and from the looks of things, they can't take out slugs of lead.
Written on Wednesday, 31 January 2007