My computer just had a flit.

Few places on God's green earth are as imbued with primordial magic as those bordering the phantasmagoric waters of Fundy.

How's it going Harold?, gravelled masculinely from a few tables away. Yeah, not bad mate, as my rested pen raises brows that in turn tonguely prime lips for conversing.

Ah I my heart, / Lift up your voice; take songsome part, / And swell the chorus grand.