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Arm

Lovingly written, that.

Giric

Welcome to my parlor, said the spider to the fly.
Ours is but to listen, not to question as to why.
The web is all vibrations, full of flies, beneath the sky.
Where the one has gone to dinner, and the others gone to die.


Giric

Are you saying, thoughts as dross, fall from thy divine lips, or in this case, thy keypad?! While we sneak, like thieves, over thy garden wall, to snatch at prose, lying hither and thither, within thy untidy word patch?! If so, how apropos.
At least you have not hired workmen to hitch the wall higher.

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