There is a time in the flow of duckitude ripe with thought and reflection, ever eager for an answer to that nagging void: when shall the next trocito of premium yellowtail materialize?
Yes, his is a philosophical adolescence, a blooming of quill-topped q-tips o'er the wings, a chortling curiosity towards twins.
The great horizons call, full of wonderment and hermit crabs. A duck cannot but wonder: why is he here?
Who invented the lambada?
If a feather grows in the forest and there's no one around to scratch it, does it make an itch?
No matter the conundrum, the conclusion tends the same. A sunny disposition's the thing, whether doing laps in the sea or in wild bewilderment.
