distancing its elf from the timeliness of becoming one's own mascot, they mustered a bicorn telegraphy that met with standardized haplessness to-beat-the-band, each displaying cardinal hands and rich moot, and when no sudden a minute had its past, a pewter asp would wrestle up, give hiss to the whence-we-come-from-back-then-see(?), proffering oracles and grassy noels via high-5 sessions, rapt tender modems and a tiff or two, those low-lying files, and a moment or hour or a novel, fifteen hunkered pages and all, maybe more (or less) a ticking twosomes, or where I could show you a shimmy, countless kaffir lime, trendy though they were, striking or sticky, sickly sown bell tones, the kind you liked, or at least used to when the bag still had its cats, and dammit were it not for a few (or more) hues hides, battles aside, saddled baggy ide, rotors to boot, a blander wrinkle could heft, but then again, so much for the a-ha binary...