A sprinkling of dusty flakes, the dead skin that makes crusts upon the brow and which blizzards away as one's forehead creases in blowzy consternation, fall lightly upon the humpbacked bellypaunch, the curly-haired chest. One is reluctant to move, lest they drift onto the upholstery. Best remain, then, sofa-besnared, until the tender springs of summer push forth their curling tendrils, and the haberdasher's secret love sprouts once more among the soft furnishings.
Listen Now.
The tapestries tremble in the breeze, their threads a-quiver to the invigorating vacillations of:
