A little lot of plumcake. A layer a little like a pushpin. A stinky and often miscarried remainder. I have no heart for it. O it! so marked I don’t know the reassurances I make to myself. I lay my little bitty in position. Softly, softly coughing the cuter to see me so whitely and wonderfully spongey/scunched. Whether one needs such tightness and twerpiness on such a big day. A canister my buns HAVE for me to sit down. Right here? Yes. This is sit. W/ my cake and I need to be tight. A little like a duckling is closing in on me–after me like a ducky.