Clouds float by lazily while I dream of cookies, but — that can't be right. I don't know what cookies are. What are cookies and how can I dream of them while wide awake? And am I real? Maybe I'm only a semi-conscious dog turd on the lawn — say on your lawn for example, and my ultimate purpose is only to lie here and wait for that fateful footfall. Yours. And then I go SQUISH! and I'm all over the sole of your shoe, and then you wish it was you who was reclining lazily in the sun, dreaming of cookies. But either way you would still draw flies, so it might be a moot point after all. Enjoy your thoughts.
Clouds tend to scare the cat. Damn things chase it all over the house, shooting out lightning bolts every whichway and scattering raindrops all over hell and gone. Come to think of it, they scare the snot out of me too, and it's a pisser having to wear a raincoat indoors, and carry a lightning rod when I go up to have a bath and such. Here kitty — let's you and I have a strategy meeting. I'll bring the kibble and you bring the brains, 'K?
It's not cloudy in here. I've been farting.
Just above the cloud layer, the snarl of twin turbo diesels warns of Leslie Zeppelin's approach, and all intelligent life flees.
Wooties at parade rest (12:00 to 12:01 only, Thursdays in March, in odd years, on cloudy days, if they feel like it). Tickets on sale real soon now.
A cloud of leaves blew through town but didn't stop to say where they were headed, or even who sent them.
A small sheep-shaped cloud went by. Stamped on its bottom: "© 2016 God. All rights reserved. Fuck you."
Currently making the transition from old creepy guy to creepy old guy.
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See if that helps.
