{Etchings on a lost treetrunk, additives added}
The hounds. They’re everywhere. Crawling through the lost canals of Meta-Georgia. Seeping through the faucets of Queendom Come, p.s. - keep a spleen in your body at all times. Dear Antlers, I am writing to request that you assume a less confusing penpal name. I am writing this on the back of a used baby wipe, and using that which rendered the baby wipe used to write. I’m sure this comes as no surprise, since you always knew this day would come and you’d be left unfiltered in the countryside, impaled on blades of bloke and grass. Left numb with scissor inlets, mere scalawags in the face of Orson Cockadoodle can hardly conform to the preexisting directory of all listings, correct me if I’m pissing too far. Enclosed is a pointy stick. Attached to the stick is a liberal economy. Please consider the nature of these gifts, then discard when finished. Or, simply return the unused portion along with the used baby wipe to the tree it fell from, free of charge.
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