note: this post is intended to be sung in my deep and sexually arousing voice, whilst in the wine cellar of king's co(l)le(rid)ge.
(i) see the sun sinking like a ship (that i need to right), like i right foundering dissertations - though of course the sun is not as important as the merest passing fancy that flits through the mind of man.
hey gal, let's make hay-gel when the sun shines (one of those passing fancies which are more important than the sun). [hay-gel: putting a paste of straw mixed with dung in your hair to keep your hair out of your eyes, and make you smell attractive (to country folk).]
sun-beating love,
beater
x 0 x 0
ps: the aroma of those truffles is really penetrating, but i am still not convinced that food is an aesthetic ex-pier-ee-ence. oh damn. i (w)rote that already. wine fuzzes mybrain.
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