It's Angelina's birthday on Sunday. I'm only telling you this because she loves flattery. I'm going to light 11 candles. From now on Angelina will need a little extra care and consideration. I'm up for the job.
The evening air, redolent of Frangipani blossoms, excites my dull senses. Energized, I plan to save the world of its unalloyed follies, or, in a more sober icy blue heartbeat, I resign myself to coordinating my steps with the undulations of the rain soaked grass. My penury of will, induced from the relentless patina of indifference, is gently transmuted by strengthening sojourns under rapturous trees.