Relegated to clammy hands, the last forage was less than dined. We ate, wept, wrecked, and shorn tweed. Lapsing into spring, the drummers followed suit. Autumn beat out summer like a skin on the durum, soon it was all high tides: negligencia winning out over the apatheticists, and thumbs aligning on all fours; seven toed libras on each hand, married with tophats, stoved-in clods, and bades for the misfortune. Our universe, not one of yore....