Whether the roistering festivals of Spring or the dilatory days of summer, the greys of fall or the whites of winter, the biannual turn of equinox and solstice attests to those who see the fullness of life and confutes those who do not.
The woebegone desire to publish led an interprising scientist to the lodestone of peer-reviewed publications as well as to skylark in the samizdat of free internet access.
It is marvelous when toenadering ends in a rapprochement of sorts, achieved by atrabilious ministers who refuse to capitulate either to reason, force, commonsense, or each other, and thus manage to achieve peace while during all of which they spout dithyrambs of power drunk rhetoric to an already satiated but grateful public.
Not one to beat about the bush, galumphing through hackneyed expreassions and heaving ponderous verbiage at a thought, I rather use a trope, perhaps referring to an eponymous novel using the eponym as expressive antonomasia, such as "We were all recalcitrant Tom Sawyers or comely Becky Thatchers in our vibrant youth."
I went to this old medieval-looking practitioneer, who appeared more like a gargoyle than a doctor, and who, becoming an eyewitness to my misery and earwitness to my coughs and moans, took pity on my beleaguered soul and prescribed thebacon for symtomattic relief.
There is no rubberneck foolery from the rubes when this heimisch girl walks by for she is not heavenly but in look and gait quite terrestrial and, with far from a mellifluous voice, she speaks in those economical morphemes which might be better termed grunts.
A most wonderful poetaster, mane flowing from his cymotrichous head in the riparian breezes, pondered the river and the immense depths of ambiguities in 'riverbed rock,' 'river bedrock' and even the more frabjous 'riverbedrock' so profoundly that he tired of creation, and, suspending his hapless musings in futilitarian stoicism, took a nap.
Once upon a time, an introverted byrologist took a flyer by rolling a stone down a tor in Devon to impress his mossy Ophelia before remembering the main tenet of the Creed of Byrology, the one about rolling stones gather no moss, which sent him into tortured histrionics of mea culpa extroversion so embarrassing that he went doggo in Dorset with Jill where they lived happily ever after, the end.
Jill put the whammy on Jack, for she chose not to tumble, and went up the tor alone to swoon in the epiphany of effulgent parthenogenesis.
The insatiable logomaniac devours the Urban Dictionary to feast on the vernacular of the vox populi, the Oxford Dictionary for its artisanal lexicography, Mrs Byrne's Dictionary for its recondite lexicon and The Devil's Dictionary, a vox dei in its wondrous neologisms, but written by a mortal thaumaturge, Ambrose Bierce.
When the preternatural bebothers the ballast reality gives to reason, you waver in superfluous phantasy.
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