Bumpanalia.

Happy birthday to the Van de Babies. 

Someone's been sitting in my chair.

Sticking with a theme. 

Crooks and nannies.

There's always a free corner.

Waited hours.

The fridge has been playing The Cure's "Close to Me" for weeks now.  Baking has become something of a dancefest. 

Climbing up the walls.

And leaving scuffs.

Too coooold, mama.

Earth below us, drifting, falling.

Earthly.

After industrialization, the winged ones inhabiting the Rust Belt began to evolve--doffing their pale colors in favor of a more telluric shade. When asked how it was achieved, the King's answer was brief, "Easily dun."

The Boo Crew.

Inky, Blinky, Pinky, Clyde.

Fourth.

"Inky"

Stained fingers and smudged shirts.

And, still.

"Blinky"

In true memoriam. He wears small grey cats. Also, the bushes were full of Ennui today.

Continued.

"Clyde"
Practically line for line.

Revisiting some old friends.

"Pinky"

I never walk anywhere after noon as the only greeting I can bear to use is "Mornin' ".

Writing on the wall.

Not in the Belshazzarian sense.

No Standing.

Guttersnipe.

Esp. fond of shoestrings.

Expire.

Nothing deflates interest in a piece like the feeling that you're ghosting past lines.

No dice.

Just some words, a simple glamour spell, and a half dozen pigeon skulls.

Pre-Tolkien.

From a story called "Puss Cat Mew", but, really, who'd own up to that title?

When it rains, it pours.

Wasn't sure why the insistence that something here had to be yellow kept buzzing in my head.