on the swings
His name was Barnaby. He always sat next to Beatrice Grundon, and never that one girl with the pig-tails. I am not sure why.
Barnaby always turned puke tinged yellow whenever I rubbed butter-cups on his chin.He swore each time that he had never locked lips. Ever. But, I knew the truth.
He lived in the red and white apartments on Seventh and Oak. So did his mother, and her three pet rats.
We talked about sea stars during recess one day. Everything happens five times. I didn't believe him.
He also told me once, that every object, if broken enough, only returned back to its original mass. No point to cut things. But, why do we speak then? We should just hum. He told me to not worry because we are one sound if we looked down on us, and especially if we were dead.
Barnaby always turned puke tinged yellow whenever I rubbed butter-cups on his chin.He swore each time that he had never locked lips. Ever. But, I knew the truth.
He lived in the red and white apartments on Seventh and Oak. So did his mother, and her three pet rats.
We talked about sea stars during recess one day. Everything happens five times. I didn't believe him.
He also told me once, that every object, if broken enough, only returned back to its original mass. No point to cut things. But, why do we speak then? We should just hum. He told me to not worry because we are one sound if we looked down on us, and especially if we were dead.