mistress_

All the rabble rousers have been stuffed into their fuzzy wuzzys and shipped off (rather unwillingly) to their own personal utopias. "What dreams may come..?".....none can know save the dreamers, who, for lack of "shuffling off (of) their mortal coil", will rise, as per usual, demanding of ME long tics of toast, eggs, fruits of every imaginable shape and size, and a salad, with "a ressing and a-routons" no less, regardless of how the personal slave has faired through the night.

I, must be off as well. To restore, in a couple of hours sleep, this aging form, if only temporarily.... Then, off to work through the long dark night to emerge on the other side,with any hope, not permanently scarred.....