I am empty of tunafish semblances and performing with a troupe of acrobats in the arena of public predilections. The tickets are cheap and it is a summer show only. There is a bucking, an inverting and a flipping on the bruised shoulders of panicked elders. The formations assemble and break apart quickly.
The critters I have trapped and had taxidermied this weekend include seven weasels. They have been stuffed and stilled and locked into a circle, backs to the center. Happy stuck weasels commemorate the Fourteenth Day.
Pants pocket-like jowls are forming. I am husbanding the landscape with my chums, each morning we raze, trim and pluck. All actions seem to come in demonic threes.
It is time for a suckling.