Matty Matte Modge Podge

If its Thursday it's Friday, and it seems if I think blue, it's green. It's never warm enough, until it's too warm, especially under the covers; that when me feet traipse the cooler edges of the beds frigid edge, and reach the brisk cool that wraps in between toes like a wedged sock, I am for a split second appeased, and then all at once too cold. Music abounds, drearily as a hazy faded image of a distant vision, that words all meld toegether to form one amalgum of a holiday song that teeters the intelligble realm of having a set denomination. Christmans time is Christmas time, would be the safe descriptor for a snowless mid December, and slipping in and out of the work day through the branches of the month, lingering to close on the edges of the weekends limber branches, we again slip off into the vast abyss that is Monday, reminded of the fact that weekend has past and we must endure through another week to the more mild and relaxing confines of our weeks repose! I sh