We crept from the foul mealy mouthed authors toward the door.

The sunlight was like baked Alaska cold on the inside.

My knife was lost on the cliff so I bit thru the leather straps.

I remembered the down filled comforters and the winter sunlight in San Francisco. Too easy. 

We harvested the lobsters who had climbed over the barricades. One said his name was pituitary and he had worked as an optician. Or was it optometrist?

Time circled back and left us cramped and thirsty for wine.