RUING IT ALL

Things had gone neither wrong nor very well. We constantly rued, regretted, lamented, lambasted. Our senses must have been in a touch almost as tangential as any hitting and every set of breezes. The warmth weighed but heavily. In the varied climates some sameness began.
I reached for an old cigar. My heart and your head began strumming any ukelele. Of one thought, a sycamore clipped itself. The process of procedure pronounced. From out of the total thicket we sallied forth into some heavenlike haven. Sunlight that bathed the many animals bathed us -- us also-rans. We lay in a thicket of thwacks. Much ruing unregrettingly wedded itself. Languor knew the luck of flown lice.
Nothing but the skiing could have been far from utterly and completely as rueable as the grass. In each corner of no avenue numb notions overtook numb notions. A bee rued. I regretted sting and posy. From out among the clingy panting of much worldly forking we served each other. Our new shape had the old shape of spring.
Before the next announcement comes forth at a gallop, quite refined ridicule must visit; yet, how can ridicule be refined? In the month of months, a brink's teetering has the rye. Beneath a shower of sparks a dog's howl scowls. We may reach. The bulb may extend. In shrill nuisances an egret finds the sundered. Avocados that are served were pitiable.