Replacement Mountain Climbers with Secrets for Servants

I’d like to report a secret, a secret revealed in retreats, always told at the start and end of conversations, a sort of ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye’ is the best emphasis for such definitions.

They counted the bites in the oranges at 9 years old, remembered those numbers at 21 years old and dialled those into lies at 47 years old.
The eulogy along with the bowl of paint, was kept in the trunk of the emergency elephant for minimal moonlight and that feeling of amateur goldfish within the lungs of the bubble, was sketched and stored on the walls of the trunk.

At 53, a screaming note to all those around bellowed from the upper staircase, ‘I’m crap at dying!’.
A cherub of a child perfected their signature wishing to aspire to the words of that scream.
Years passed and the child went beyond being an adult and forgot that the signature was meant to be a proposal to ring and ring and ring a bicycle bell, with a basket filled with lemons for their hiccup years.

Half a life approaches 68 and the meaning of old with oaky scent, in hope to manifest something Edwardian, is careless but who now cares, it is in fact reminiscent of its false claims of an era which cannot be sourced... Goodbye Georgian.