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Miller Hen

The skin is all disturbed, rasped the miller hen upon a croak barrel of sorrel tipped wine flavor. But lazily, I spun kneecap to the ground hammock, flashing through an orange cheese to crystal bonded groat plates.

Shall I worry about the bondsman? He paid four platters to a mineral wire camp, singing of Bosphorus round nuts with his left hand. Clarence spoke there of syringe pendants, but I listened only through a vaseline clamp. Then I followed the instructions to go the route to Clarence’s house, remembering his stately promises of fire figs plucking a peanut butter harp with lemon strings.

Clarence left a note but noon flew by a circle feather before Eunice hopped over the mole string with her sandpaper running board. It seemed riveted to the side of the one-breasted plastic flask, but in the splashed cubic light, I could not really be sure. I did the next best thing and stoked the carbon ash with a Germantown hydrant, seemingly equivalent to a vascular oven, but a little less compact. A trickle of a squeezed in smile tucked my corners, for after all, I knew Clarence would be pleased.