Take time, now to recall the ages before dawn. The silk underweave of the tribber and the five gain rattle of the skitted crowl. In this quest that we seek the day that becomes mumbled as the toad breaks his very on the border of skepper we look, once again, unto the fell: the great dawn or the limby falseed if you like.

Crainnaughts and watchers settle by the plasticine lamb and the lamplight under the pile of sweaters brought in by, Oldnervorn, The Jayfox of Barthe. It is in this moment that we all see, like the Wippnernaught or the Persemonseede, that the very bolder of forgotten hat is becoming cloud and pepper, like the Victorian shue that it is, winks lightly upon our helpy brows.

Stop, now, if you will and look at the bright candle that waves to the tractor in the distance and plays like a talkertytree on the wespering side of the wilkenhorn. It is for this moment that this is now here and the fixed apple of spring comes laughing as a roller-skate in a cardigan.

Good afternoon.

Hektor.