I hussled about, waving a wand before the children of the Adirondack Mountains: but everything was so flimsy, clumsy and diabolically vitriolic and frenetic that idiosyncrasy and diabetic cardiac arrest was ultimately considered the apex of pragmatic flightlessness. So I gave up; I quit; I realized the best way to escort pigs in the calculus equations over the Bridge of Sighs is to have them think their way under a tunnel of doubt and mischief: maybe that would conjure enough rotational viscosity to garnish their philodendrons with adequate success, yes.
Words words words: I need 500 by nightfall, before the vampires come out. (To keep away the demons, collar your neck with dictionary garlic.)
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