Timothy was in quite a profound hurry. He always had somewhere important to go. So one day Tim locked himself in the garden shed to prevent himself from always coming and going. They found him one morning knowing where he was mowing before he finished sewing.
It was still a bit cold out when Timothy began to shout. The neighbors didn’t have a clue what it was all about. Everything was in a stir for Tim like a bath of grout. Tim, as it turns to be, was allergic to grout and what it was all about and died three hours ago on a white plastic couch.
Tim enjoyed riding on elevators and the like. They lived in the city, so he didn’t have a bike. When his mom called him to dinner one night, he was with his friend Mike riding elevators all into the wee hours like a spike through a railroad tie.
Let me tell it like, just like it was when I was there. The village square took a dare and fought me a good fight. Timothy, however, was in his last days and although he did not know of this, he walked the club with a soldier-like pride. Tim found a girl who took him with her. They were always gone and came back one afternoon to their cave in the hills to find the fire was alit. Timothy split and explored the other end of the apartment.