La fairy the fay
Tipsy hustled through the doorframe, the hinges depleted of rust but sheered off by the sudden wind, roaring against the aged timbers, like solid oak castings that rift through the very door, a silent echo, transdimensional, of the past, and now the present card, the leery often dialect, like cheerful noise should fay like fairies outside of whom whisper sonnets without much boys.
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