Fixel Praxelion’s countenance was one to remember (or so I recalled) – her favorite color was clear. Transparent or clear as her clothing wasn’t made of/as glass (for will be the trend). A white taboo tableaux-esque tattoo of a slip n’ slide wrapping her wraithy fingers and earlobes – possibly her spine. It was separated from her hind. The sea sealed parts of mermaid. Anatomical Mangelle. Zennor the devilfish of Pendour cove. Of all the Milesian boys he was fed the herb of immortality. Of all the milestones in her fabled history she was fed the Zebulax seed of Enik’s grove.

They’d known of one another for a time being (Enik itself) had told them of one another. Fixel’s fountain mouth opens and pours:

“I shot often! I feel that I am to be entwined and twinned with the knight’s knife blade motif.”

Enik was swimming under the sand, eating the shells, and Zennor knew just what she meant. Zennor’s must laden hand detaches and performs a dance. His heart the marionette. The marionette’s sinewy golden string rod and his idol Fixel’s sonical swarthing. The electric mask. His hand mermedium, mer-murrified, un-petrified, performs as Enik perceives the dust performance simultaneously.

The velvet zenith dons the provincial troubadour in a portent pile. Fixed in a rampart peddle it carries his paddle strings down the horizontal plane. Rocking the yoke. Shriveled tending the bushes, nibbling the rose hips, he was sure he liked them. Not knowing his lymphodeionic crown, they dwelt where they once weren’t.