Let them regurgitate some such softness to warm the belly, like mother to young. We will be corpses of nourishment. A labor sometimes too hard to swallow when alive.
What frisks Maestros upon this, these slits between white, black raised, inner ivory chest nibbed with shrill ebony tinge? It is all about the tone of cracks…
Rheums of revelations; crusted fallacies eloquently parabled with a fingertip, these boogery symbols profoundly offered in tissued expressions of faith.