the potpie settles and sticks beneath crispy potato plumps.
their shoes squeak like new chew toys on scratched hardwood.
the metal tree is clumped with the light of 44 honeyed candle combs.
the crumbled cookie tastes of bitter chocolate and butter in their mouths.
the gristled sky refused to let down its stubborn snow.
his voice has more recognizable features than his face.
the furnace filter is full of our particulates.
santos scribes 
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