To The Incredulous Interloper:
Awash in a bowl of honeycomb, what a taxing stench.
Hardly an evening spoiled.
Before the volumes are fed the recipes of soothing stews, I must remind myself to relay the patient's tales, that I might not deprive the children, indeed, even the grey hairs, of the truest account. Therefore, I ought to pitch the earliest stake through the wheel of a wagon, a hardy device, weathered, and faded in the color pink. Though surely, it once sported a red complexion, now within it dangles multitudes of string, all clattering in their slumber within the arms of their precious cargo, the marionettes. Below them, a gangly creature of unusual height hidden in the folds of spotted patches hastily sown, is their guardian, known by the crude threads of blue stitched in a white blanket, held upright by nails, as Ring. Aside from the odd newspaper, Ring maintained a fame of performance, but the brief respite is entirely dedicated to the first love of wood and metal, and a duty to ensure the well-being of The Halcyon Eight.
Harken. I believe the mail hath arrived. When will the mail learn to cease pulling upon the loose hinge and tap as befitting of the iron construction? Perhaps, there is a remedy for that.