I have a finger up my nose and I am humming a favorite melody. Not bad for table talk… for my digits are neither long nor extended…but allegedly…stubby and fed by a dissymmetrical blade. I am unsure about the specifics…as such allegories are rarely nostril friendly…much like the reviews of my companionship. The detractors are stuffy…high pitched…and…well…irretrievably nasal. I loath all of this chatter, tied to the summit of my face. Perhaps if the octave could be lowered, the future would be more about a healthy contrast and less about the habits of the bleak. I ate all of the food, even the envelopes that you spilled on. I drank all of the water, and in my travels…even managed to moisten the dandruff in your hair. Looks like someone else…is also not so perfect. Have you heard the twang of a guitar, crying in the rain? Grouping words and reflections are becoming a banner of unintentional refrain. Yet…it is so emblematic of our pod…that I am more than willing to fetch the longest shovel before receiving payment for the metaphoric debate. I can hold a tune though, but you think everything is a purr. Is there a moral equivalent to the heretical arrogancy of a standstill? Perhaps you can just accept the inaptness of my paw… as the savior of the incongruent…or should we merely focus on unearthing a sonorous conversation…and the veracity of its airy, pointed claims?