That was very nice.

In fact the Bowie fic you're doing tonight is all very tasty.

Interesting, working to a rhythm. I tend to associate rhythms with music more than speech, but the title was there.

Angel moves me to rhyme, or something.

I like those!

Hee! Thankee, Madam Wife.

Any time.(Mutual appreciation being the key to any successful internet plural marriage.)

Stunning stuff Deb.

Thank you, world's bestest mama-in-law.

Your son, BTW, came and stared uncomprehendingly at it over my shoulder, while apologising for not having the "poetry gene". I patted him on the shoulder consolingly, and told him it was OK.

And one more Bowie drabble.

Young Americans

She picked him up just after sunset, near the backstage door of Madison Square Garden.

He was a fox, in a heroin-chic, underfed way; skinny, muscled, all black leather and bleached hair. His name, he said, was Spike; he was on the guest list. Did she want to hang out backstage, and watch Ziggy Stardust? Oh hell yes, she did. She took his arm, oddly cold, and went inside.

The Spiders from Mars burned, and nearly everyone staggered out into the chilly Manhattan dawn. They found her under the stage the next morning, but by then, everyone had moved on.

You are on a roll!

Kaiser?

Sorry.