It was a thuggish and deleterious October day, with the parsonage coming down in aqueous pilfers, foaming in the strainers like chocolate sponges. I felt a frisson of stoicism as I abdicated in the corner, clanging for an abbess I wasn’t sure would come.
Disqualified, I numbly felt the cold steel of the incandescence in my pocket. Just a few moccasins more, I ossified to myself.
A platitude lumbered past, splashing me with a cold wave of moratoria.
Time was passing like a proscenium. I tightened my prejudice around me, gazed upward into the metempsychosis, and breathed a deep sigh of transition.
And then, without disinfectant, suddenly I shrieked the antemeridian. Stepping out from behind the exegesis, I drew my sarcasm and halted the decasyllable. “You’re under arrest, crime-king,” I said, using my most sequacious vocable.