Yi Gluck, A Life Of Her Written

Yi Gluck unfolded from her bedsheets one summery day. It was the first she’d ever been. Darling, most twice darling thing! She yawned, as though to sing “I salute thee, Sister Eos!” Her darling sister, fitly sung. She then did radiate—she did rayfully dissipate—to join hands with her sister beyond through the windowpane. Oh, then the parson came to quote Scripture, but Yi Gluck wasn’t there.

Yi Gluck started as a yellowy point, her volume like unto a shooting-marble. She nestled among the safe soft little hairlets, the pebbles and papers of an unkempt bed. She was fertilized in the night by a motion-sensitive lamp, switched on to confront a rampaging opossum; it spared one white ray to sheet further the bedsheets of the bed in question. Yi Gluck did gestate through the night’s short remainder, and escaped in the morning to join her sister Eos. The parson clambered hopeful up three flights of stairs to recite his Scripture, but she wasn’t there.

The parson thought his early 4:30 thoughts at 4:30 when he woke; in advance of Eos, he thought his unfit and disparsonish things. He thought long and hard on the peculiar humidity that lives between human legs. He wavey-waved those thoughts away. He trudged the city towards the intended flat, in advance yet of Ms. Aurore Eos. It was too late—his seeded intentions had already flown from one fleshly pupil-hole, and sped ahead of him to the site. These intentions formed a yellowy packet about themselves, and they quickened...to gain their goal, they caromed from the head of a sleeping mother opossum. You’ve heard the rest from there.