Junks mode name above the throughway, read by the hawk’s eyes of the mate through the scratched windscreen. An Egyptian Honda, he swerved it branching three ways, triangulated the vanishing point of the long perspective. The scope of his direction rocked the pilasters of petrified rage.

Make the dot, oh John, keep the cure, bray the spangled path with parti-shod treading, churned flat in the pocked and plastered trough engorged. Through the ranks of flickering fires into the night between all creation and sound, he went in the Honda of Egypt’s roads. Ready the master, spread the masterpiece, we have pictures for this extremity, and the name above the roads is read by the back of the same eyes forever.

2023/02/10 #DailyWrittenOOM

Eight o-clock in the seed chute came and went with the rapidity of a switchblade knife. The bald Kelson sat in his creaking reed chair, counting, weighing, and measuring seeds that passed the examiners. Eruptions crackled along the serrated skyline; the fume of hair fuel in the trinket population outspent the heavenly bodies in their many-laned courses. Breakfast came to the Kelson three times upside-down because of the anomaly: see the oven tapestry record.

To the chugging sound the examiner stations swelled, and he lanced them to prevent overthrow, unaccounted ejection through the doors magnificent and pillared. Dragging grooves traced a mesh over his coal mane evermore, till through darkness of polished red glass shapes the time struck the full nine.

2023/02/09 #DailyWrittenOOM