105 Glazes of ecstasy

Merlin Marijuanastore kicked the high a step higher by slamming his fiddle bow twice onto the strings, and the band swung into a perfect recreation of “White Bird.” The mature beauty thought she already was going out of her mind from the privilege of sharing the lead on “Morning Has Broken,” a song deep and true, but to hear herself and the Stollin’ Bluegrass Band sound exactly like It’s A Beautiful Day had in bucolic moonlight dances of the 1960s sent her crashing into higher and higher glazes of ecstasy.
“White bird must fly!” wailed the championship baseball team gorgeously from its perches, and Monsignor Quinn broke down in tears for joy again, his youth reincarnated. He remembered the long nights in Sonoma fields, fascinated by music of the times, the sky unblemished by the city sixty miles away, so that stars and the black were lavish.
“White bird must fly, or she will die,” repeated Aunt Kar, very quietly.
In the long instrumental interlude, made entrancing by the Sourpuss Ninja on the bass kazoo, the six lovely ladies-of-renewed-hope, not yet two hours after the Frisco Ninja’s heuristic tuteledge, were induced to dance hand in hand through the cafe, roaming free as Botticelli’s Graces.
Mikkim Ttommott’s easel and furious flying chalksticks were informed by this neo-Renaissance neo-Happening, its harmony and painterly cues, vapor and coffee gadgets.
But she did not miss the vigilant eyes of baby Drew, the protective scanning glances of the other baby, nor his little sips.


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