a knoblike process

Creeping crepuscule, descrescent light, harbinger of dreaded return to EST, where darkness dampens day’s early end. Decumbent drone diminishes daily, drowsy in the drawing room. Sip long from murky melodies, muddy froth spilling forth in rivulets, dirgeful delights diverging in drone’s ear canals. Mellifluous miasma of musical melancholia!

Dismantling of outdoor seating commences! Desperate attempts to affect staring at nothing continues. Doctor Chumply the Mouth Breather appears, Mickey D’s in hand, heart-attack-in-waiting, following with tiny aggrieved steps the trail of nitroglycerin tablets strewn across the decking. Take the elevator, not the stairs, for they are locked, despite the sign in the kitchen encouraging good health through stairs-taking. O, Dr. Chumply, what will become of you, will you follow those tablets to the Haunted Wood™ where the witch stokes her stove as she awaits your fleshly delights.

[But Christine, what of loneliness, standing there behind the invisibility cloak, always working, always writing, what did engagement mean for you, O Invisible Author, did you drape yourself in a duvet woven with words…]

Glossary

lumpfish: Any of various fishes of the family Cyclopteridae, especially Cyclopterus lumpus of North Atlantic waters, having pelvic fins united to form a suction disk and a body bearing prominent tubercles.

tubercle: A small, rounded prominence or process, such as a wartlike excrescence on the roots of some leguminous plants or a knoblike process in the skin or on a bone.

Quick now! Homophone challenge question: would you rather your words resonate or resinate. Think about it while staring into the clouds.

hello sunday night

O, Daylight Savings, how I despise you. I woke this morning unaware of your silent overnight passage into my unsuspecting life again. Thinking I had a good handle on the day, being up and about at a reasonable hour on a Sunday morning, I was feeling fine. And then you made yourself known. O, deflation, how I shrink within you. From that point on, the time bandits seized my hours and minutes in their tiny slavering jaws and scurried away with them toward evening (perhaps the time bandits are really time badgers, what with the similarity in sharp teeth and all).

And so now I sit, the night’s hours growing slim, feeling time-poor and less weary than I should.

As an aside, I took a peek at last year’s archives and found that I had only posted once last March. Apparently it was colder, but other than that not a whole lot has changed. This frightens me.

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