I stepped over what I thought to be a stench. This was when my odor was affected by the wind. That table could have been shortened by removing its leaves. This table is something I inherited. That one small finch is something I don't want to inherit. She was callow. She was crude. She sat on a dock and held her head down at oily water. It was the brightest moon in fifteen years--and we won't see another one so bright for another twenty. What is the dischord you can bring to a life? Name a machine. A snowmobile. Name a facial expression. The grimace. Name a tree. The tree that was sick--and we had to cut it down though we resisted doing such a thing for ten years. She was barefaced when she lied. She was not disguised. She took a class that showed her how to make her face look bruised. She had putty for lumps and plastic liguid for blood. He did not want to be called a barber. He wanted to be called a composer. A figaro. All that's tonsorial. We had angler fish, and they provided the light.
The mercury of the dog. She drank brack, and I never asked her to share it. When she lost her animals, she was concerned not so much with whether or not they'd come back. She worried they'd come back much more crushable than they were before. He launched the limb he had found. After he launched the limb, he found that he could no longer shake hands with Busiris or Poseidon. Also, she was fountaining. Besides, he didn't know how to fit the beanleaves into the small fish. Barring the slashing of his face, he was ready to have his picture taken. Hence, she had her hat between her legs. Howbeit, never once did I shake hands with a palm that was not both clammy and greased. Yea, I had not one kingcup to give to anyone. Get this Buttinski away from me. As I spoke with a woman on a corner, this Buttinski came between us. He camped. He wanted to know if I had sold all my bog violet, when, of course, he knew I hadn't. This was well-publicized. This was nothing but a bungling of the dozens of wards I had to date.
I spy--with my little eye--my posterity. This child sits in the crotch of a tree and makes wishes. This child, earlier, had sat with me on a couch. He had put his head against my arm and had spoken something to me in--I think--Spanish. Je pense que tue est une vaste plaque--mais, au contraire, je te vree dans la boulangerie, I responded. My best French. My youth had been spent on a steamship. My boyhood had been spent on wood. My adulthood--now, this is what I have little to no control of. I walk on bricks when I can, but, at times, I look at the what my feet have been doing. I was sick of her villainy. Her jockeyism. This is my time to answer the fowl with a question. Dear Chickens--which of you would like to have me put pins in your eyes? Which of you are up for stupefaction? The gagman had to give a presentation to us as punishment. He had painted himself gray because he had wanted to be a mouse. He broke a plate to cut his stake. This is sharper than any knife. The horse he bet on was Elliott Bay. Now, this is the culminate. The culminate woman on her fountain. In the fountain was a seat.
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