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Lava flows over crooks and craggy cliffs to the ocean and explodes in a steam heat fevered cyclical motion.

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There will be table and chairs, there'll be pony rides and dancing bears, there'll even be a band.

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I'm spitting out excuses that would make your stomach turn.

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Face.

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You can breathe, but the air is running out.

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If I could do just one near perfect thing I'd be happy.

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I can break and take it with a smile.

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I guess I'll run this half marathon.

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Must cultivate garden.

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I smell meat.

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