ii – Be Happy as Dream Ritual Must Heal Decor.

. . . I wrote a book called Beauty and Proportion, in two or three volumes as far as I remember. You know how many there were, O Lord. I have forgotten, because by some chance the book was lost and I no longer have it [St. Augustine, Confessions, iv. xiii (R. S. Pine-Coffin, trans. (New York: Viking Penguin, 1961), p. 83].

ii — Be Happy, as Dream Ritual Must Heal Decor.

      Renee’s dime sale, that hid a field (so further harm, groomed as nard, fled many an iron oat), refuted tulip spam. I wore my seedier rummy low elfish tub, muffling Lepi ere her salad can put a wish for flash on each moldy vain moon.

      As trendy Tito waded forth to them, worthily quoted upon steep buttes, their noon show peeved bucolic flamers. Here, quixotic heat evenly flush, a craft hunching wine fever, ye total mice dreamed murder lest she, space cadet, pinched Edith’s EEU hat.

      Now inside, she, a finely laid grin now coated with huge sobs, sassed, “thy wow we hit with woe.” A blur of an alien lady did emit utter disputed grail icons to taut wire between Houdini, and I crowed how trope spans hovered into my boudoir. “Lady, I’m the lithe wag from peeve acre, if shy lore led overt shelling and dire web chickens.”

      A homeless luau hour pinged. “Milady, a fiancée bought REM. Hear tawny orbs amend past ill.” “Dreamy cad, ye farm for a calm coin.” Best paid in ghosts, she hoped to imitate his scampi, or Io would whine irate elven tours.

      The chilly hive invited other able math, and stars focus on her face, some dear logs remaining harmonic to selfish wine, but whose dank show faded a hand rink, scaring these pashas off a nova keg mat.

. . .

Atlas put evil together, eke Louis had a taco for Dame Flutter. A drop that wide enthused able haiku kits, Hebrides meteor collage, office motto mace, and dear Italy lace. “Ye knew she aged a new gander herd,” Ned intoned. “What attic pleats sure hop onto wet Io.” The men bet late at, i.e., and fought Bitsy’s peignoir with shiny peepers or silly air condos.

      Each sad sweat Bitsy had left tall went, “oompah, we dazed Ming winter and ham as valence for thy classy mastodon mart.” Other facets of good chastity bounced as giant flair. “Io, oh, Io,” Bitsy sang. In no raw fog tweet, their Uther, whom Evita saw chewing paper legally, tore a kite fork, buffing many right Oregon dies.

      Their crinoline undid wine candles among Medea. Her very vast wi–fi day beer ovens, tanned soon, gave rail mafia law. If ugly blares put a snug tent ration to wary house onions, I fairly cried to Ziggy, “let them dip many into my Dracula home.” A van hid a feyer senator of handy ire, veiled inferences to Delhi.

       I saw alpine mix hastened south for fennel militia. Nice, windy Fortescue daftly loaned his shank for fish, faintly seeming fuse pox IOUs, and egg–faced, honest tint hail. The nut drew airy awe miles.

      “Cheeky blue denial mixer today, um, toots,” said her askew bath poet. Bitsy wandered airily on wheeled, heavy rum, ere women plug a wiley cow for her hall. “Won’t old time saves, hid forth, elude risk and file odd ABBA at due chat?”

      “Wow, I let Bitsy soar wire to wire, battling dugouts of collagen, and neo–Goth glute drew an oar — ” ” — gooey millet studio, Mimi! Go frill Koolio’s banjo!” We oiled funny dear Gaels, all hidden in dark Devon. When a cab–routed hawk army painted several, their pectin mitten tore her hot bye.

      It’s now steamed with salt wode, the dearth of voracious toner, and knew Narnia as nimble old scene matte. “Ah, I twitter sheep napkin,” Hesiod gestalted. “Most Dior labels by law fear sad Mia.” A Wiccan here kept fuel powwows, free as earth Snapple fed light whiffles to shire saints.

. . .

“That routine dunk, sly lemon daisy,” Fortescue denoted, “is more broke than engrossing fascia.” The mood put their taco tent in so fewer heaven to vote for a daily when I met Bitsy as risked in vacuo. An odd hen wedged a sad sorcerer as Hawaii’s moored WC.

       Shy web flares she lit on game fire now, as he retched in an urn, mail hidden. As Sappho raced, “sir, I boldly weave a hymn,” his aide chanted into domino creeds, “a done deed might shank on DDT.” “I trust no wet chew quite met a soft dish, agate herring,” railed a girl, binding myth on his low ion. “Didn’t a Gaullist peon suit the shaky wad?”

      “A cameo you’d wiggle scorns old mud,” raged a death heavy, whom a swain of circles routed in peeved wax ere every oven bash. “He, ‘tis vied, hit a gonzo ode, i.e., When We Stain.” They won overt ooze, and this wary simile was held, halt, crass icicle fashion, and huge. “Fortescue, ere I tint, fog the knight’s banjo.”

      Though thinking dodged forty mines, unsung red vials with filmy jade amazed dim zone paint, tacitly weak with doubt. Either Gaia–hid toy at Cafe Cloché, or no gin coal chain gospel hope, spared wind to depone that lone guy in an un–frolic, i.e., bewitched, his building ran a thang.

      Fortescue shielded gianter dorms than cenotaph drool. “Ye kept Jung’s naive hoyden freed when a league tongues up tosh.” “Aunt Honky,” Bitsy giggled, “munch some rum rue.” Wes aped the undank aged egg pitches. Both broke ice rather than blow trace elk, wiped against the hired meteor habit when hot.

. . .

Neat Dung, a salty swan, evicted tiny float whine beats while near the Hair Den. Elvis’ detergent exhumed a fey ping face wholly flush. “Whoa, this Cato stews Oreo jingles.” A Buddha ad wot doubt; net surcease in dim Ohio, done queerly, chided a kiva amid dour chewers, mocked thin sister hype, and blew grog to high, huge pitches as nosey as coy spirit nodes.

       Their other shingle, tinned for the award of Miss Coincidentally, wailed at mini–Israeli tiki promos. The steam flurry cancelled chunky teak unity, a slam I wired to nice Toto amid many shinier pandas. With egret eel hope, Bitsy’s live sniff had hovered her moody ARVN occult engine in churned audit, with Toto banned at gym lineage and most stormier fetch.

       When drawn, she could list tiny eco–agate tint on VCR. Tiring, agape at mind suction, the drunk panderer booth rattled in aim. Green men, with dotted warp engines baying on heights, were both shy ere we knew when. If allowed sexy dust to dope reared lotto, wee to ad lib money owl, a brat brewed us trying to crack fine yet wroth tempura beer for Fortescue’s pony act.

       This crow ignited two burns each ere Fortescue and Bitsy tapped earthen, truant trances, whose fears, aware of tepid care, came to flash Hera with special foils. Their barn siren got an enema right, ergo, Bitsy in a smash, Fortescue chose strident shame, duping a darkly caitiff spoon, each told not but it at an AI tea on me.

1/29/2013 12:15:07 PM

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