Narcissus-X sees not the sun. The sun shines not today. Water runs down a window like a lime-scented squirrel.
Squirrels. Pearls. Peacock pearls before swine curves have amplitude without attitude but trending sets of syllogistic silence echo vainly against the night.
Squirrels. Vacant memories drift. Flour sifts but flowers fade. Who mourns for Twitchimius? Mourn not the Golden Grove, for lo! It mourns for thee.