Janelle’s no longer picking up. We warned her about the furnace coals gone rogue alongside the neighbor who wants us to know how much snow she shoveled in the yard for future tunneling by tipsy bards still young enough to slingshot brews in the middle of sound light. Janelle’s alone she claims. Reading about fast food in fictional form while tiptoeing to the pantry to snatch spoons peanut butter to put on keto tortillas and roll them into handy lovely sandwiches. She would answer if you announced you’re from Project Runway and wanted her to stop confiding in ghosts and wear less homespun rugs her de facto head clothes. She usually poses before her precious phone keeping herself to herself en route to running away like a train on steroids in a swirl of constant replay.
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Sheila E Murphy
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