The fumble mode is all we own. Our legs are primrose satin felled by bleaching chill of falling snow. We are bubbles on its bed. When doors don't open, break them down. Some jobs weigh more in burden bricks.
Some loves give more in lesson grit.
A prosy poem is born of Hell. A rocket's breath is in its tail. Think it over Wit, Wit is the epitaph of an emotion.