“Let’s go with *this* picture instead, Hindsight, er, Golden.”
“Yes, call me Golden. For now.”
“O-*kay*, Golden (*tee hee*).”
“More light, I agree.” Hindsight/Golden knew the squeaky voiced sponge being was always right. He was worshiped in many galaxies.
Those who didn’t worship him were often left in the dark. Pitchfork territory.
He has a son. I’ll deal with him next. Hindsight/Golden turns here toward the CB Dylan dresser. “And the wife.”
“We must keep testing games, Chef-inspector *Petty*. Carcassonne is good, but–”
“Carcassonne is the one,” Petty emphasized rapid fire, refusing to play this new one. It was too far along in the year.
Hindsight (Golden) kept waiting for collage elements to show up as repercussions. And there they are.
I can see the Rainbow Sphere but I can’t get to it. Banned. Roger Pine Ridge still could, though. And therein lies the problem.
We must return to Iris.
“Some year we’re having, eh Spore?”
“Iiiim LOVING it!”