Is The Gobbler here yet?
Well, is he?
Slack-jawed avatar of monkey justice. The sky is like an elevator - it descends one floor at a time, softly juttering with the onset of evening. The sun's a slowly deflating balloon seen through a mist of heavy-handed similes. Phhhsst.
Your filthy fist is wrinkled like an old man's knee. Wounded biological furniture. A pancake of eyes. Hey, that broom just winked at me! The Gobbler's car pulls up outside.
Tarnished, like brass or an old painting of an ice-cream flaking scales of varnish. An image shedding skin. I'm thinking of using psoriasis as a metaphor here. For what I'm not really certain. The Gobbler got there first.
Hemmed-in by possibilities. Cornered by options.