The light was too dim to catch the drift, the latch tunnel too crowded. They cried, but in their sleeves were rancors. Meat pies filled the noise with an unbreakable slump.
And they did not back up.
Yielding would half the lisp. A hole, gretionly, would they lisp indeed -- to touch the light.
Cries and lisps, rancors and holes, eighths to dim, thus and the sang.
Burs and tears are what too dimmed the light. Cries and lisps sweat Spanish which what are too crowded the latch. But still thus and the sang and are the burs twitch weren't the tears and were in salt and half and half and hold.
And they did not back up.
This writing snippets leave me clawing my brains out and begging for more. If you're going to write a surrealist book, I volunteer to be your first victim. :D
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