In pensive nonchalance the rifled spire showed the pressure region – cavities in violet ran the utmost sequence, a promenade without roughened shoulders to bind. Clad in framing rails, the wreathed trestle appeared on the viewing, parcelled in the sequence for trim time, felt at the length of your rail too. Forgotten burning fuel laid, lowered thin, filming the roof above the twisted, brushed to a broad shallow garden of patterns in a single layer.

Made clear by the fluttering of the staff, the spiralled axle lodged in the standard’s dread was shaken; we were made loose from the sequence, shoulder to shoulder, but now are covered and turned again onto your wreathen rails.

2023/03/02 #DailyWrittenOOM