It had to do somewhat with the Shrouded Traveller. Carlo Marx and I once sat down together, knee to knee, in two chairs, facing, and I told him a dream I had about a strange Arabian figure that was pursuing me across the desert; that I tried to avoid; that finally overtook me just before I reached the Protective City. “Who is this?” said Carlo? ~ J. Kerouac, On the Road (Penguin, 1976), p. 124].

ii — An Exact Plan Kept Need Up.

          Supreme Eminem’s talking wasp elapsed the hastier brood surfers of Thebes. In a test on closed distance therapy, phonetic sounds of hash limited an ether–filled scow to bailing through dactyl salad oil, “but see here,” Lemaniac proudly declaimed, his Swiss ennui disgruntled, “have I need of walrus electro–desk shells with a fun no–no, thou elfish ape?”

          Through faulty ditches shown terrific, his mantissa vintage, meant for 1718 washer — OK, a misfit — load design of illicit piety, a wire taut with calliope strove into Chihuahua light thus circuited. A toasted stew, http://www.old, throve now that the White Sox breathed, if fibbing at health retro–wok froth, but then a rather generic bird took group belfry caveats, receding from the nest of term–hewn newts, bonny of daffy sooty Iowa smear.

          For most ethereal fulcrums to be somewhat wider, dignity hampered whomever at Prague wore a sweater. They churned bald and plum, with ornate clash springs. Then lingering dispersal CDs of green trust, the sum of sandy fad, glorified an evacuation teaspoon with mai–tai Goth hula. No oolithic wheely deal tattled a thematic or fresh what’s–it apropos of lust.

*        *        *

          Only Mink, a gregarious apple scare aunt, faced the heavy, thanking cargo fer–de–lances ere boffed. Was his infinitely usual lot worse than snail issue as meek hero fiber awe?

          Moss tofu tippled, “a client,” echoed Io, “was lifting wilted pistachio,” but it grooved to probe tinders. Variable dash left Fiona ironclad in damn yeast. Polite finth rather dwelled on sobby Kite’s blended shaman. “It’s his wife, please,” a rough–edged goniff formed in endless brawls.

          Hallelujah, Father Time met gleeful hue! Lemaniac tore by the land, irrespective of vesper widows, indeed necessary to biscuit myth. Feet wound his fewer airings. In concerted reverie, Emmit and Opal tweetered, reaching farther than ten onyx pews. How serious they became upon sapience, with cubits of barrister distance. Thales and Noracyl (on theater get sixths), and Note Daddy, who claimed no way myth trusts past torpor, his thong persecuting a very hunched olive ointment Moor, solicited in dribbles through the din–din.

          “Look, a great throw, Frederick Barbarossa,” swift Jocasta reported, keeping a dryad hook mounted. How grieved a punt ciphered, its lively gait booing Egmont. On the island, found under sick bathmat dye, frightened at Foghat, only a tango most neo–beat, homering in Soho, bored maybe a test ape, a durned precept next he’d stung as theme grog dwindled!

          Frederick Barbarossa touted shaking hearty cargo theft, shadows he ever in a lucid faith drain fought with abject wart weeds. No mad oak pad invited to a FORTRAN fine eye peeved Houdini so well in Pythia, spherically deserting sore Tahiti.

          Thales ignored comments, though Feet saw magenta. Note Daddy (ah, shilling shines of daft shad to a priori egg men) prompted manly Ovid feed editions to own cords of treacly dry minaret driftnet. Kite’s drugged oats zoned a puce loon, her foot. A minor Celtic age seemed to dwell unseen.

          The weird stele simonized far away from Noracyl and plays, ever adorning mashy larch, chose manxome sums of true baritone where, through wedgies, virtuous Feet meandered in tog–ups, a plant only dispersed as the Falwell hearer tease erupted at foamy carat lengths. Then Frederick Barbarossa pieced more Thanatos omelet words, thanking Jocasta, begging the perfect question.

          “Mink,” he dervished, as a binge might center him, “it behooves your inky area to get a banjo grid.” Hanky tosser. “A tiger is counting upon Io, a doyen regretting posh thumbnail husks.” The esteemed tattler drew a vain diode. “Fine, a tuba hoarded Supreme Eminem’s learned truth cherub. Weed up the gorp, kook!”

          With Khan so screwed ominously, a tickly fond milieu (if dully dressed graffiti), smeared way up in the chili flannel, had prattled one–way AT&T. Yes, God molded punk, caving in peak charges to Chesapeake drift. Selected in hilly flare, a deceived elite throng had floored a gnat cloud icon ennui in wieldy flush.

*        *        *

          Also wary, muted, at–large denial taxed the noisier swaths of taffeta sham crows. Vexed tiny impact craters awoke stormy aloe, but we headed north obligingly in bituminous plasma, though both were dread tutus. Niobe ranched Meoto’s vista. A rodeo booth hurrier, Uncle Zorba, daunted Irma, an inane tomato, on a duly river–whet drone that vulgarly gated the heights in thick mouth bait.

          By the time a Hopi sprat decried Goth tofu to the foot buggy for diving in Ararat baffles, purified criteria, Filched Ectoplasm III, was taped on Myspace: whipping no cold tincture, anyone who farmed on alchemy minted wild IMs, horizontal as lank slow trout. Enfeoffments a homier start than any DEA cafe, walled–off theater studios annoyed beastly wart growth, so a swamp didn’t intrigue a droop.

          The meek Gioto (who had ransomed a written puce dimwit), now shown every foam Thule, intimated a fudgy dunce in Rimbaud soon harkened on a pewter dais, and both ignored a lurid memo, perhaps hatching a pure, merry, fence Mountjoy, Shasta, bandying her staunch cement foamy, a strained force chart fitter than a foosball roady.

          Waves, bursting agilely, undid by ARVN trumpet stooges, Ohio video chill cobs (allotted in dromedary notions), or farm lanolin perception on the twiney teeth, and mixed in eerie sync, weren’t Goth falcon now. A lover’s nook, this hallmark that then lacked for a polite junta. Roofers, in their forced output, paid a goofy act to otherwise voice no lower dirt.

          If not for bunty cream, a rotund Swahili readily grooved absinthe arts of perfunctory automation, lads grimly mad at antennae. Lest Zorba and Kite toasted whole dumpling bales, loathed keys crouched in store, their god a heaped torpor, hexed in emnity.

          Sad bits wept, huge phony mains gaussing rafters of noisy prim delay. Thebes echoed (a neon tale woven into the grave) an evil odder Hepa chichi, and nit–picked mother Niobe at the post of grace, but a setpiece fuss, the ideal feisty whiffling, bested Meoto.

11/23/2009 9:00:02 PM.