At the bottom of the sea there is an obese sea shell whose identity crisis provides her with the ego of a treasure chest. I stashed a love letter in her throat for you. Just ask her to sing.

The skull and flower preside at opposite ends of the table. Supper time. Forks have forged their identities. A vase stands centered. Did your mother pick those flowers? Or is that her skull? Either way, it's awfully thoughtful of her to flaunt her presence.

The cordless rang three times. Jupiter lit up in her eyelids like a dimmer light bulb. Four rings and God sneezes. A cue to end.