The solstice moon, named Rita, rose in the urgent way of moons. It struck a bargain, deal, it found the night effort. As Children, we reported the news to the sun god, Larry, who shone on fields bereft of snow. It is the true and narrow, this time. The hesitation of kings and queens surmounts the merrie of the day. That song that captures all the likely response systems of this season of tidings of great joy, promulgates a buying spree rapture towards a clock of definite purpose. Someday we won't be children but, still.
A paragraph poises as a previous set of sentences finalizes a character of thought. People think so, and in the environ, spell correctly, largely. It is the season when the dour sun god Larry avoids taxes.
The cat, of which the stories roar, has a span of days. The computer system in which rare reveries revolve stands corrected by further days of thought. When your Christmas yuletide formulation dilapidates, a thought of bison. Busily bison, force of run in, plateau, ages of dead grass as fuel. Rita Moon, Larry Sun. On to entropy and beyond.