[response to lamister Lady]
Sitting on a shadow as on a mat we contemplated making pistons of our parts, only to find springs bounding on as if afeared; pipes busting out as if besmeared; breasts fleeing far as if just cleared; mine and yours in Sydney and Mumbai, respectively.
Anxious to jab a slab of my own bits on the detonator, I not only moved towards the front, but also scraped from my elbow the body butter. I with wings. But there: my sixty-two-year spry hide belied by the apparent button jam — detonate or bust, I always say — became not then a pack of horses and not then a scattering pack of horses and not then a pony and certainly not then a galloping pack of horses and not then even a hobby horse–
–but then a washer in the shadow on the sand, separate springs, pipes, parts all creaking into the small place where enabling conversation cannot go. Rust is oxidizing iron.