Penelope Cholmondely raised her azure eyes from the crabbed scenario. She meandered among the congeries of her memoirs. There was the Kinetic Algernon, a choleric artificer of icons and triptychs, who wanted to write a trilogy. For years she had stifled her risibilities with dour moods. His asthma caused him to sough like the zephyrs among the tamarack.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Epi(c)logue
I made a new friend. And by "made" I mean "ground out this reputation for a solid week". And by "new friend" I mean giant fucking red dragon.
I have a giant fucking red dragon. Like, as a mount.
And by "new friend" I mean giant fucking red dragon.
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