Infats in Fiction

Sung backwoods: Can we get kinky tonight, like Cocoa? I've oft. (en) considered doing it thusly, with the dwindlings up-front like a side-two classic, but only now have I (hum). And why now? Why, I'm surprised you have to ask. In fact I'm downright disappointed. To go further into detail about the erotic and racial implications of hot chocolate would quell any remaining sense of subtlety, so answer I shall not. You must realise I've worked too long and too hard and too sweatily on embedding the clews to risk a careless tear at the behest of my slower readers. But I will say that the following sounds like a preceding for a reason — read on, Josephine!

Some non dits: Hello, blossoms, Fink Fingers here, noting the weather. What sunny potential for a time when my cultural mound has more than halved, and my first choice co-op critic has fled, leaving me with a remainder who makeshifts a therapist's couch at every op. on which to spill his sizable guts and the occasional vestige of coitus. Now I can officially recall a bigger, brighter world and paint an ever bigger, brighter picture of it, which, like all masterpieces, will be too precious to sell and too ugly to look at.

Some hum truths: a deeply familiar face sprung from a quick flick, most unexpectedly, and instigated that funny mix of the shy and the sly the best grins are made of. Though far too brief to set in stone, I got the impression that the intervening growth was pleasingly undrastic, much like yours. Consequently I was flung back to days of progress via proximity (preferable to progress via transmission) and sent into a wretched state of flutter, from which I'm yet to emerge. In effect it's a state whose true shame — measurable to within point-five millilitres — depends on future events, events rooted in effort if ever there were, and thus likely to be displaced by a prematurely resigned F—it. But he remains nonetheless vigilant, and wonders how long a smile at it all can really last.