We swept the fence. My arm was a parachute cannon, nudging the higher Vertigo. Uncle was
sitting on a pallbearer—the PB had failed (sweaty palms) and retreated to the hotel umbrella
lawn with a VB. He was another corduroy song I concentrated on, moving the caravan up a
fret. Entertainment-induced tinnitus in F#, that of a fly buzz or felled mallee. The M came off
the logo into tattoo! Glob of spit and a parachute move. Under a carpet is the silo we tried not
to fall into aged 9, and I paste it back with butter and eggplant-as-a-verb the gate by burying it
in shallow compost. The pineapple was a tomb, and we began an undercoat cracking our
necks towards the PB who sneezed up cod lunch.