Assorted Sods

My solace quakes and shivers. Twilight on the eve of Libra leers. Peculiar tidings gnaw my britches.
Never before has a meteor shower claimed so many. Brother Talbot was pelted on a venture to the shower-house in hopes of cleansing his in-betweens. We mourn his unfortunate passing. In tribute, a gathering of young men will flock to the town square and mimic Talbot's best known contribution to Cajun soul music, a random series of pelvic thrusts punctuated by a kind of primal yodel. Finally, per his latest diary entry, brother Talbot's remains will be vaulted into the crisp November air via catapult, and dive-bombed by trained water fowl. Talbot himself would appreciate such a curious display.
In preparation of another such tragedy, I have proposed to the chancellor a blueprint for an elaborate infrastructure of underground pods linked by reinforced tunnels which would support the reemergence of, what would likely become over a period of an indefinite amount of years, a breed a mole-people. Although I bemoan the awkward image of creeping cramped through crawlspaces and bending buckled in bunkers I believe the execution of my depictions to be necessary.
The vultures salivate on their perches crowning the oak buds on high branches as clouded rain water gathers in catch basins. Any dullard would testify these are tell-tale signs of the planet's fatigue. Despite such tidings, I shall instruct my fiddlers to sack those who adorn crushed velvet chaps, as we have agreed at the previous assembly of their pagan attributes. Their innards shall be trampled with rusty paperweights; their jihad will be rendered null.
However, I shall not hasten to announce the disputed arrival of Baby Horace, the fatherless child of an elderly seamstress of the peasant chambers who scripture has dictated to grant fortune through uncharted misery. The child's birth is indeed welcome.
My ink blot is as mud on the desert floor so with these words I bid you: clog your cupboards with rose pedals and douse your dormitory with herbal thistle. Speak hands.

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