"I shall endeavor to make it so." A flowery approach that was not necessarily anti-vegetable. Some days you just can't edit and those days are the worst. The scissors chuckled while the rest of the family slept unaware.
The coffee continued to be sour, unpleasant. He felt as if he were wading through rancid jello, that was how the days were passing. Yet the mushrooms underfoot were colorful as if perpetually recollecting. And sprinkled flour, of course, the better to avoid a skid.
He wrote, she wrote, they all wrote. An object was created thereby but nobody could hold it. He saw a hut in the forest and angled towards it. In his dream there was an old house on the property - one everybody had forgotten about - and all it needed was new windows.
Horror horrified him so he avoided it. As goes the wittiest goes the rest of us. Finally the car was fixed which meant they could canoe again. Trails of mist rising for which televisions were a useful metaphor.
Certain writers, on the other hand, act entitled, like a harvest. He kept turning North as if it really mattered. A poem is not otherwise what. This was one way of writing a sentence and there were others - he was certain of it.