She woke up with eyes that saw only red. Every sign was a stop, every light was no go. She tore open the skin of my ankle bone. Racing just as fast as I could. Not withstand the beat of the rum. Rum makes the machines go wildly affable. Laughable. She stuck the pin in my best throw triple salchow.
Couldn’t she just promise to color and filet, in quickness and in stealth, for merchants and moors till wealth drew us far?
I’d win a hundred gold medals for her. No bronze for her make-up case. She’s allergic to silver.