Midnight (as the oil burns)

The pinky swore not to be a boor,
But alas, he wore too many clothes to war.

Quality of Life

When a hot iron is picked up, the first reaction, assuming that the iron in question is not a flat one for de-wrinkling clothes but in fact a hot piece of iron, is to yell loudly and drop the damn piece of hot metal!

When irony strikes there is no quick reaction. There is only the fresh brand and a stench of gotcha.

Into the night the detective followed the very clues that would lead him to the fact that he was following clues at night rather than getting a proper sleep. Into the night the archaeologist dug for clues that archaeologists only dig during the day. Into the night my focus drew on the words, the fate-sealing words: focus is unachievable.

Distracted

When upon a cloud, a sheep, wolf?
When in a meadow, flowers, Tour de France?
To the cafe, knife drawer, telekinesis!
Forward, backward, tenacious appreciation of all things improbable.
Kilowatt, what do I kill, Nefarious dreams. The Egyptian pyramids are too tall.
Follow the distracted brick road. Leaves in the rain.
Stressing about one's coat yields no hooks into which one can sink.
The brain, the valleys, the wildflowers, the extra-dimensional staircases in that Futurama episode.

What fresh hell is this? This is my hell.