To deal with the shifting snow, Mr. Peacock became a therapist. His wrists clotted/clanked. The skyscraper swayed. He served his patrons valentines cut in quarters, but his patrons preferred the blind eyes of his beatific feathers.
Between the cell phone and the absence of the cell phone, Lot’s wife looked into the wind and became the gust that carried cellular mercy.
The stone lifted like a reed and clipped Homer on the ear. Its inscription rose and slapped him blind. He chiseled away at the stone. Thus he eroded the message.
Kindness brought out the wolf in Anna. Her raincoat hid her eyes but not the hoary frost in her beard.
Shall I break my pitcher so that the light of my torch will blind my oppressors at the roller rink?
If thinking nuclear thoughts, the horizon should sprout miniature madonnas.
The cicadas chirp to the grass. The grass never chirps, nor does that piercing white eye star number 1,376.