Another afternoon seethes at ten over the already high speed limit. Wheels don't have rhythm, they have the spins, more than likely to lose their airs. I was certain and now I am empty. Stop, metropolis, you've drunk more than your fill of cheap wine and paint, then thinner, then enlarged again. We won't pause, and esteem still goes to the fastest out the gate, timed from whenever the legitimate scorekeeper started the tally. Sweetness calls, answer. The wreath replaces the wraith. Stationary on the from door rather than a failed ghost with re vengeance on the ectoplasmic brain. I'm sure if we were in paragraph form, there would be shells to pay, but as it is, purgatory and another Jonah are having whale intestine for dinner.