An old saw: I never planned it. You can’t with all the rust, which grows unexpected, more goiter than child, more loiter than wild. That’s how it went, least.
I sat down on a wooden thing upon which the holidays needed me to play. Without some trite thing to rest upon how take flight? A gull needs a rock, a hull needs a dock…dear God…I…so many candles mean to burn…
Practically, the bow’s made of hair, and to make any sound, much less music, you have to go across, cut your hair, exchange to translate changed.
At most, I made a saying:
cut old, bend new,