Grumbled rumbling of the mountains in the air tumbled and fumbled all through the lair. In the lair stood a man on his deadline, three hours and thirty before his adult prime, and listening, thorough, and beautiful sorts, out of his pocket his last wealth short of a full, and glistening in his eyes, tumbled and fumbled through his prime. How he stood, grasping his look, and ferocious precocious ashes and soot, gathered on his brow, and low and behold his damned fatted cow was yelping, spinning, and breathing his heads deeper meaning, leaning and gleaning, creating a different breeding ground for his death. How he differentiated his time and money, this man couldn't tell what was funny when he looked around and saw, fat thick browns and the law stated he wouldn't be allowed to be poor anymore, for he would have to be looked at by the ones that wore Gucci and breathed the same air that he breathed. The homeless innate to his health brought upon him lack of wealth, a
I write short stories and poetry sometimes. I deconstruct writing standards.