Grief Among the Grains

This one had it's own name on it. It bit itself. A fitting metaphor its become. A bright spark and blaring bang culminating in a dull ricochet and an excruciating thud as it finds itself embedded in not-even-close. Keep the pebbles company, slug.

Technicolours milling around. Like ostriches with their heads firmly steered sandward. They're entertaining the undersoles of Chinese people an earth's molten core away now. Squint away, Beijing bunions.

Sic Semper Tyrannis!

It's safe to say this safety seat nary meets safety standards any longer. If you listen closely you can almost hear the whistling sound an aerial infant makes as it whizzes toward mach speeds.

Break out the champagne, teenage ma'am. Or mammy, I should say. Because you'll need plenty of liquids to produce more urea to re-test a dozen more times because, my, what a blunder. The bubbly can also serve as a fine bon voyage beverage. Fare thee well, youth. Drop me a postcard, dreams.