Through the filters, their wanders edge. Indeed, Gold and Plumpy Pout cross the barriers of existence once again. Where solvents have been poured. Where solutions have been stirred. And where emulsifiers have been blended. They have rhymed themselves with Harmonica’s beatings. In the parlour at Corpses’ Crescent, they seek the script for Miss Amber Littlehead’s treat. At the Crosshairs in Waterloo, they slide into the tunnel and hum the pendulum’s puzzle. In the classroom without bounds, they sense the locked equations. And, in the autumn breeze, they gather the ingredients. Most certainly, in seasons’ keeps and in cyclical motions. Along with Elder Sooty and Lengthy Just Misty Twig. They joggle the jiggles of time’s constant passage. Will the winter’s frost stop them from mixing Miss Amber’s sequential treat? Will they swirl in well with the matters? Or, will the strings in the barriers prevent them from crossing the membranous borders?
