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.

I've got that joy, joy, joy, joy...

But mind the rules of the queue, lads and ladies.

Spring of things.

Post-proj. Pre-pencils. William Morris style.

Theophany.

Prophets abound in the wind today. Met a woman with coffee in her mouth and fistfuls of golden paper. Hallooed Echo rattling around on a doorstep. Skirted a ragged Old Man with a large dog but no sticks. Followed the Three Kings for a long while--pale hands and robes of green, black, and purple easy to spot. We parted at the Summit. They headed South after a watery sun, and I turned North, as I've always preferred the moon.

Haps.

To all the grannies in the house.

All Souls' Day

For the poor sods languishing in the spiritual queue.