It’s a carnival atmosphere.
The smell of sawdust and elephant excrement.
The sound of clown tears moving through face paint.
The languid whip crack of a loose tent peg in the night wind.
The press of long departed crowds cobbling the softened ground.
The discarded placards tumbling past prowling felines.

The Bearded Lady’s voluminous facial tresses upon spumes of guttural snores.
Bobo the Manic Monkey nestled in the gargantuan embrace of Koko the Eloquent Gorilla.
The seal trainer barking sighs against a twitching Thalidomide Kid.
The sleeping magician practicing his art in front of a mirror.
The contortionist turning in her sleep relieving an itch on her nose with a toe.
Midgets passing along tall tales with clear jars of White Lightning.

Gentle obscenities wafting, burst from the saliva bubbles of a kook of clowns draped in drunken repose. A clown grunting, painstakingly separating the upper and lower lids of his eyes along with his rogued dry-chapped lips. “What, you were expecting actual midget sex?”

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