It’s the middle of July, and the air is like French onion soup direct from the stove—a thick, unbreathable mass of scalding, body-odor-scented liquid. Almost everyone afoot is young, impossibly fit, usually jogging faster than I can sprint, dressed in scraps of painted-on lycra.
Your German language vining has shaped your English with even more divinity. Vine on! Yours is a delicious vinegar.
I posit, however, that diaphanous yoga pants were invented by a joint effort of the Devil and God, each contributing in kind as a Job-like test of our collective reactions. It’s looks to me as if some folks are smuggling yo-yos. To another as if they would look sporty at church or on a flight. So many offended by a nipple will parade wagon ruts out in public. Perhaps painted on Lycra is the current Tree of Knowledge?
Your German language vining has shaped your English with even more divinity. Vine on! Yours is a delicious vinegar.
I posit, however, that diaphanous yoga pants were invented by a joint effort of the Devil and God, each contributing in kind as a Job-like test of our collective reactions. It’s looks to me as if some folks are smuggling yo-yos. To another as if they would look sporty at church or on a flight. So many offended by a nipple will parade wagon ruts out in public. Perhaps painted on Lycra is the current Tree of Knowledge?
Smuggling yo-yos. I'm dead.