(Repe)tons of Fun(dament)
Rounds and rounds of grace tones stipple ardor in my carrel. The lighthouse four km from here has drowned. Maybe semaphore owns rationale, while we, young onions, are infused with incandescent flack. Ingenious methodological ix-nays raunch the livery supposed to deem a person worthy of another person. Coveted pronouncements shuffle within hearing range. Home plots anchor depth. "I'm "waning" you." Until, unless, untimely saplings have been singed, we're going to be wary of divulging stones. Our leisure yields some culpable gift gimmes. I think, therefore I stammer. When you venture, move this way (home first). I'm in the middle of atonement. Shall we veer "at one"? The kinship comes before the amicable unction given in third worlds in which we toy with force majeure. And only then will sign language serve as keepsake as a tacit copacetic sponge.
Age before bounty, frenzied friends approaching a perfectly coiffed cliff a ground speed