Fiction

Blissfully obscured beneath a trademark stream of brownish, brushed free of curls for the occasion, she looks up at the lens, either faux malevolently or provocatively, and unwittingly at mein mien — my provoked auge organs in particular —, and, at the time, unbeknows my existence, here used for an unexpecting shot-in-four dot com, rather like a Spence-taught Storker. Perhaps I even contemplated returning to original cynicism, always a part, but partially apart of late, or even looming through a pool of dance. Perhaps I thought of Octöber. Either ways, I spent a night truly feeling that ugly thing in my ribs, believe it or not (choose not and I'll appear less feeble). Reason, Logic and the Common Sense all know, and have gathered to discuss, the chances of double hands, which is, they know, as close to the Null as Null itself, but that's hardly surprising.

All you should take of this, dear lady, is that there is an entity, on the small side, whose blood-pumper will always take the time to pump for you, whither once a month or thrice a night, despite frequency or existence of archaic intercourse, and despite your justified opinion. Despite, sometimes, that the sunny side sets on mine. Despite my slipping from criteria. Despite the whole handfuls of clones at your disposal, some disposed enough to touch. Despite it all, dear lady. People are people are people are people, and here's one in particular.

Yours unclearly,

Laurance Melody