With stinging precision, the words running riot (wearing their little purple pelerines) ran me through with sharpened criticism. I have been lax with the water lately and with cream. Festooned angels wait for my better judgment to kick in like a geriatric song on a scratchy record player. I have neglected my responsibilities as Light’s hostess. Mahogany fog fills me in with an inauspicious and anticlimactic anticipation.
Miniature Moon 