An old Royal, just what I'd been looking for, scored at a recent yard sale. It sits on the shelf there, handy. Words are slapped out at random across the page. Observations, stories, songs. A love for the written word worked out right there. So much can come from letters following letters. Words, they hang within reach, drifting on the air currents of our imaginations. We pluck them, and lay them down, evenly spaced (or not) between other words. Who knows what they will say in the end, but the doing of it, the trying of it, the laying down of words, this is play; it is silly, it is serious, it is art.
~Her gelatinous jowls hovered in a continuous quiver. She would have been shocked, had she known.
~Hi my name is Arggie. I like to eat gravel. All I'm wearing is a speedo and shoulder pads.
~This is a really old typewriter. I, Marcel mcDougal McCluster shall tell you about
Sorry, I, Marcel McCdoogle Macluster ran off the page. Where were we? I,
Marcel MuckDewgle MickCluster appear to have lost my place. How frusterating. Do yo
Did I just lose myself over the edge of the page again? I Marcel EMeekdoogull
Minklobster, give up.
~Her voice sounded like dry oatmeal being forced through a fine-mesh sieve on a hot summer day.
~Hi, my name is Blopie. I hate lasagna. My favorite snack is a doggie biscuit between each meal of cat chow.
~His thin, short lips couldn't quite wrap the rows of heavy yellow teeth which dominated his mouth, compounding his embarrassing issue with spit management.
