Sun sets slow on the soft shiny snow.

Lofty, lazy, long loncoln-log-lodge lays lackluster.

Picture perfect people proudly playing Principato.

Super stoked ski-bums sip sultry cider.

Tightlly tailored, tiny toddlers take turns touching todo.

All awhile an adolescent angelically admires arrangements of Aster.

Painfully punny poet produces poor presentation of personality in a purple polo.

Nervous nerves nearly nixing notion to restart, negating thoughts of never obtaining her number.

Graceously granting goofy, good looking guy, game of Galaga, girl gets to game center pressing go.

Boy, boasting best score by far, biding time while beautiful babe blasts bad alien bombers.

Teen tragically topels top talent too easily, then typing MKO.

With wet palms and a weak wimper, WBP wiggles the wand willing the wild ship to wander.

Flashing faintly, final score fails to fracture frighteningly fierce score of 4,134,254 by MKO.

Slumping solemnly, sorely scorched city kid shakes hands of sassy sore winner.

Thinking the nine tiny digits thwarted his ten trembling typers, he turned to go.

Promptly prying the pouters' pocket poetry peaking from back pocket, she proudly penciled in her number.

Jolting around and just realizing her joyous jotting down, he jumped, and jived like a jackalope.

She skipped away and smiled. Searching for a place to scribe, the boy sat scribbling about the sassy girl and her number.