Wind in pine needles take over the interior of pending wishes. The spinnaker has it to come coming to be blown. A sea-launched skirt, it reddens the foresail. 12 o'clock pm outside the window moth wings beat. The quiet breath shows there isn't more to be wished for.
Growth seems to be controlled, seems to be.
One hour less you say. A morning dove comes by, lands and shades two bricks. Eastward morning may not where known but stranding. The vanguard washes away the vanishing point. That much of a split tongue scored off.