What it was was an attempt to separate the last intrusion from the preceding one. You see, no one heard you announce the effort, however mistaken. Some joker said, “Like some picnic basket twit or a spare nerd in the nightstand.”
It faltered, okay? Why shouldn’t it?
Try locating an appropriate ambulatory bauble. Try collecting a bundle of unmitigated rabble to make it seem superior. See if you don’t still yearn for a bit more sequence in the punch lines. And the joker said, “Can’t you even tell the off-duty clowns from the dead policemen?”
Whereupon I acknowledged I still couldn’t open a tomato and I realized “curvaceous” is not properly a receptacle, but I couldn’t help filling it everywhere.
Neither is innocence uncommon, even in advanced societies, but it is very difficult to distinguish from ignorance.
Which could have meant that I was not very convincing in denying my participation.
And as I sit in my car in the driveway, I realize my home is not far from here. I can walk to it across the lawn.
And I do understand your reticence in presenting the bill for the evening’s indulgences, but I don’t believe we should cater to temporary explanations of recurrent desires.
Across the lawn a crackle of chickadees cloaks the sleeping tree in a flutter of nervous caution and delight.
So I’m going to draw the line although I don’t expect you to be able to find it. If I’m lucky, you won’t feel the need to try.
Rich Ives is the author of Tunneling to the Moon: A Psychological Gardener’s Book of Days currently being published in serial @ Silenced Press everyday in 2014 and forthcoming in paperback. Begin from the beginning, catch up, read daily. Just refer to the Burrow Guide.