Words, all slippery fishes, elude the tongue's fingers & dance to tunes for the deaf. An ache of ticks with sibling tocks have weathered this project along to this point.
Not notable in the progression to warrant more than a bar or two, it's further along that comes things with a far more lent toward melodic whilstling to comfort the onward march. I'm pleased with the progress to the point; smiles drove Juanita south to the homestead in possession of fresh-packed prints, pressed with an ache for shoulders to hang from. Children, your hosts will come, be patient.
Oh, for were it not for the son of Kirkpatrick...
