Picking apples, making pies.
I think I can be considered relatively fortunate: you can read me like an open book and (hopefully) find that which you do not seek.
Puzzle pieces dangle out of nowhere; empty words echo off the clean, white walls; meaningless bits let fly from the sands of time; and still they cannot be effectively assembled together to produce – for example – a wacky time machine that disintegrates at the sight of melting clocks, or a broken toy soldier that launches into song at the verge of loneliness.
In other words – this is all pure, utter codswallop. How very fascinating. And because I do not wear skirts, I do not get dates. Who could have figured this one out?