I tried to wrestle her back into the mood but she told me her feet were hot, which made her terribly uncomfortable and even though she'd like to, really, she couldn't. She sacked out. I tossed and turned for a while then slipped out of bed and retrieved my stash of stolen words from the Pasta Tangle. It felt like now or never, so even though I didn't have near enough to render my written composition in Magnetic Poetry, I tried. The only way to get close was to bust out her sewing scissors and chop s's off of shit's and say's to add to he's, finding shorter words to cut up for cleft: can, let, eat, fool, that. But what I ended up with was a lot of unaligned, disconnected nonsense that was hard to read and veritably impossible to make sense of. On top of that I had turned our kits into a mess of mangled word fragments and slivers of magnet all clumped together on the kitchen floor.