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Tired of being called an unnecessary adornment, the Finials went on strike. Fluted, flamed, foliated, they marched away from their gables, spires and pinnacles, taking lovely baroque excesses with them.
"Everything is so functional now!" the Pragmatists exclaimed.
"Everything is so boring now!" the Sensualists cried.
But Whimsey stepped in and persuaded the Finials to return, and Ornament heaved a sigh of relief that decorative extravagance was not dead yet.
(Storyword "Finial" courtesy of RuthN)
Rhododactyl aurora peeks from her mountain cradle to my east, though all I see is glowering gray streaked with silver, as if the servants of heaven have all fogged mirrors during their night's rest. Nonetheless I heed her distant bonfire and peek from my own flannel cradle, ready to face the day's march of words.