Please deliver before somebody gets hurt again.
Dear Benjamin Rabbit,
At the start of a very strange storm somewhere in Scotland, I believe, there came that fateful event of the Lemings. Not so fateful as that of the Pied Piper, but somewhere in between there an enormous host of bunny rabbits appeared to have been noticed along Brooks Range. I was at Brooks Range. In the early days of Colonization, I had a small cottage in Salem-Village, but was forced to leave for obvious frightening events having rooted out the greatest surgical minds the cross-dimensions have ever known. Now that city is hidden in the form of ashes, and they'll call it Danvers just to be cute about it.
I wonder where certain trails lead to in the forest. Sometimes there are small shadowy tufts of grass grown over the path, and in the late afternoon this might cause one to stray terribly off course. So naturally, you take these hopping explorations under the sole orange glow of the sun and have but ferns to speak with. Sometimes crickets, but crickets can be very cruel at times. A kid actually died from it in late August, if you can believe that.
I did not watch that videocassette you had couriered to me because the television has a crack running down the center of the picture tube. It was the leftover love from my early days as a child. Hooray for having very little useful social skills, all alone to catch Alex P. Keaton hugging the dear departed ghost of an old friend, only moments after proving well his skills of deciphering the exact amount of worth (in proper monetary units) of a handful of dropped change. Very close to Scrooge McDuck's old habits of diving into his shimmering sea of golden coins, emerging some distance off and spitting glorious fountains of exorbitant wealth into the caustic air like the most sinister of daemons known to any world.
I visited the cold cemetery across from Scales Park. You were there once, with two Arctic rabbits you insisted you'd met in Gails Hill one winter. Two that you'd insisted could speak to ghosts. The great coast of Point Barrow when the sea plague had starfish painted across the entire face of the beach. It was hard for you to hop around without hurting your paws, and you had to escape mean-spirited sea lions. But the currents that morning were so filled with beauty that one could scarcely take in breath without expelling it quickly in the desperate longing to take in another.
I dislike the maloderous refrain of any tobacco product whatsoever unless it's from Pumpkin, and the terrible acrid calamity of middle-aged persons in church pews only move me to keep this a forefront in my mind. I do believe that dizzying mix of colognes and perfumes started me aghast on the nights of September in 1997, burning school houses to the ground. (I had the rooms filled to the brim with sporting equipment and high school yearbooks).
Hopping past midnight on a cold stretch of road listening to the moonlight making its typically untoward noises. With a girl you really liked. After the sloshing of waves from the lake hinted to sea creatures breaking the surface, I don't suppose much could have been said until the end of what should have come next. An expiration you truly escaped by the last hair on your tail.
When I fall from the sky in a fit of tremulous heartbreak, I get motion sickness. I've felt the fluids of my stomach swirling, playing cacophonous rhythms against the inner walls of me, just waiting to burst free. I had to swallow ice cubes. It felt as though I should be ashamed. You have never been on a roller coaster because you were scared, and that has made you ashamed of yourself, but you should not have felt so silly about it. Once I rode one at a burning them park even as vandals torched it, with a note in my pocket that I'd read and liked very much. It scared me because I've always had a terrible fear of heights and my imagination got the best of me. At one point I actually felt the ride was breaking, and I imagined falling to my death while everyone else carried on as though it were only part of the ride. I closed my eyes, and afterward, the people who were not dead from fire all looked at me as though I'd cheated something I should not have. I did not want anyone to know that I had a fear of heights, so I just told them all the swirling lights and loud carnival noise was getting me sick.
I adore rainstorms, but I can't type during them so it is a perfect paradox. The breezy forests of New Hampshire have no paved roads; only tiny, frightening trails that lead off into the darkness when the sun is going down and all you can hear for goddamned miles is the soft rushing of water. And you talked to a cute little tree stump that was riddled with worms, who could recite all of the stuff you'd forgotten from grade school.
Find Pumpkin for me,
J. / West Ochestra.
At the start of a very strange storm somewhere in Scotland, I believe, there came that fateful event of the Lemings. Not so fateful as that of the Pied Piper, but somewhere in between there an enormous host of bunny rabbits appeared to have been noticed along Brooks Range. I was at Brooks Range. In the early days of Colonization, I had a small cottage in Salem-Village, but was forced to leave for obvious frightening events having rooted out the greatest surgical minds the cross-dimensions have ever known. Now that city is hidden in the form of ashes, and they'll call it Danvers just to be cute about it.
I wonder where certain trails lead to in the forest. Sometimes there are small shadowy tufts of grass grown over the path, and in the late afternoon this might cause one to stray terribly off course. So naturally, you take these hopping explorations under the sole orange glow of the sun and have but ferns to speak with. Sometimes crickets, but crickets can be very cruel at times. A kid actually died from it in late August, if you can believe that.
I did not watch that videocassette you had couriered to me because the television has a crack running down the center of the picture tube. It was the leftover love from my early days as a child. Hooray for having very little useful social skills, all alone to catch Alex P. Keaton hugging the dear departed ghost of an old friend, only moments after proving well his skills of deciphering the exact amount of worth (in proper monetary units) of a handful of dropped change. Very close to Scrooge McDuck's old habits of diving into his shimmering sea of golden coins, emerging some distance off and spitting glorious fountains of exorbitant wealth into the caustic air like the most sinister of daemons known to any world.
I visited the cold cemetery across from Scales Park. You were there once, with two Arctic rabbits you insisted you'd met in Gails Hill one winter. Two that you'd insisted could speak to ghosts. The great coast of Point Barrow when the sea plague had starfish painted across the entire face of the beach. It was hard for you to hop around without hurting your paws, and you had to escape mean-spirited sea lions. But the currents that morning were so filled with beauty that one could scarcely take in breath without expelling it quickly in the desperate longing to take in another.
I dislike the maloderous refrain of any tobacco product whatsoever unless it's from Pumpkin, and the terrible acrid calamity of middle-aged persons in church pews only move me to keep this a forefront in my mind. I do believe that dizzying mix of colognes and perfumes started me aghast on the nights of September in 1997, burning school houses to the ground. (I had the rooms filled to the brim with sporting equipment and high school yearbooks).
Hopping past midnight on a cold stretch of road listening to the moonlight making its typically untoward noises. With a girl you really liked. After the sloshing of waves from the lake hinted to sea creatures breaking the surface, I don't suppose much could have been said until the end of what should have come next. An expiration you truly escaped by the last hair on your tail.
When I fall from the sky in a fit of tremulous heartbreak, I get motion sickness. I've felt the fluids of my stomach swirling, playing cacophonous rhythms against the inner walls of me, just waiting to burst free. I had to swallow ice cubes. It felt as though I should be ashamed. You have never been on a roller coaster because you were scared, and that has made you ashamed of yourself, but you should not have felt so silly about it. Once I rode one at a burning them park even as vandals torched it, with a note in my pocket that I'd read and liked very much. It scared me because I've always had a terrible fear of heights and my imagination got the best of me. At one point I actually felt the ride was breaking, and I imagined falling to my death while everyone else carried on as though it were only part of the ride. I closed my eyes, and afterward, the people who were not dead from fire all looked at me as though I'd cheated something I should not have. I did not want anyone to know that I had a fear of heights, so I just told them all the swirling lights and loud carnival noise was getting me sick.
I adore rainstorms, but I can't type during them so it is a perfect paradox. The breezy forests of New Hampshire have no paved roads; only tiny, frightening trails that lead off into the darkness when the sun is going down and all you can hear for goddamned miles is the soft rushing of water. And you talked to a cute little tree stump that was riddled with worms, who could recite all of the stuff you'd forgotten from grade school.
Find Pumpkin for me,
J. / West Ochestra.