Oh jesus, how I yearn for thee, how I yearn for thy scones.
Yes, when I was in the secret service, we would sit in our cavernous offices and we would watch the rain come down, and we could hear it tapping against the windows. How bleak life seemed, analyzing reports of anonymous deaths and political intrigues while the rain fell. Of course, I really had no involvement with anything like that. I worked as a mail clerk in the subdivision of public letters. This meant I sorted out letters from concerned citizens, who sent tips about neighbors who were acting "suspiciously." Ah yes, it was always a possibility that John across the street, who was taking longer than normal to carry out his garbage, was actually receiving secret dispatches from the Russians.
As you can see, mine was a serious yet tedious duty, and after a long day I wanted nothing more than to eat a scone and, if need be, to smother my face in some of the luscious cream which adorned my buttery and tender treat. Oh buttery tender. Luscious creams. Buttery tender luscious creams.
As I was saying, every day on the way home, I would stop for a scone. If tt was a cold and rainy day, I would stop at Mumford's and sit in a cozy corner next to the fire; if it was a mild or fresh day, I would sit at one of the sidewalk cafe's on Neiman Street. Oh god sometimes I would eat my scone in a subtle, supple fashion; other times I would tear it apart with a ravenous ferociousness. Sweet buttery jesus scones.