Ghislaine, who had merried a weathering storm of heights, had sensed a tuna, a very bright tuna, brought on by urges, much as this special tuna, feeling a turn of the earth, had glowed with magic not at all frantic, loving each flashing fish under a lava lamp afterglow, a time for storm, a time for eat, eating, ate, a time for going slow, to recreate
Because God is love, as is a sly, silent storm, an undertow, or a mistletoe, an ebb tide, salt air giving a glimpse, or a trout, or a tuna, breaching, reaching for the stars, the very ones noted by a naked eye, not left to itself a prism, or an obelisk, or a religion, or Ghislaine, left high and dry, at least she has a puppy,
If we were ourselves, thinking properly, we’d get every woman in every prison, a puppy to cuddle.
Spam of Human Affection 
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