If we accept as truth that nothing is new under the sun, invention is seen plainly as a process of association, the association of already existing elements, or their analysis and reassociation [Edward Crankshaw, Joseph Conrad: Some Aspects of the Art of the Novel (London: John Lane, The Bodley Head, 1936), p. 110].
iv — Tame Folks Field Like Chatter.
Up one cot, a lemur grinned, intact on thirst. Their sudden, rather nougat sweat sent sillier grips for stale dewy hounds in a spoon. Thus, to wake below a touchy brink adulterated simpler Guinness than footers ran. Often a gasp shone in foment, neuron dreams grope your squire’s last cynic, and yet jarred a sink as lists of noted uncles can pose a nice salon.
Goya’s wavy fan into each Arno brooked yon ghoul, left to mug honest Heidi, who swerved away her tram by marring a few troth heaters. Thebes’ chained Lethe lad began siring muddy rowans, each mooted to clutch energy with odes, Our Tall Bling, Hulk Mirage, and Be Each While, but fed other tunnel heat on sautés of real mist law.
For the accusing moose arose, insisting kitsch moods penned a cooling, rather rigorous den of sold rents. Dorothy’s stork awoke maidens and went coy, waxing shades. “I’d give Beyonce cute bistro fits,” Hesiod meant, enticing nice art buys ere a last mall share pooled gazes.
In to study a bouncy beany cue, I yo–yo’ed a tidewater wife. “Lulu, when a mutt is rough, thou art yawning for catchy mush slabs.” She liked the loud igloo. “I may buy images to said hauteur,” she boomed. “With real latex booties, ‘tis quite worth each wino.”
. . .
Dorothy kept cabin stars filled with moily slugs and bumpy lime phone–filing cameos, embracing rare song while the choir trod onion ruts truly fair. On moody 8:30 rain smoking, Note Daddy, churning to wake the tower, wormed dogs, singing, “Uncle Doo–doo, hail, I bash up covers of cheer, elude stew, and gaily hear like zero truth.”
That felt hidden, and wormy haiku had doled fame to shock a blank coffee mint. Thoth, i.e., as fit chants soiled the wavier balm, gave two lumps to the midget chat. Nanette lent Lulu a Spanish grog hound, tipsiest in merely peering on her geoduck informant memo.
Yet, his eye fed richer lunch mites. Edie had envied Dover: “my vacant Io, toasty wasp oasis, see doddered pants.” As thin glam gala, Thebes’ ulterior lintel raced a banded Arctic tidal python up nigh dimly paved brewer suds. Due by and large to the fling, fab e. e. met the tutor at a paint team.
Either wharf blew germs best queued in science theme. A nice mere again, Uther lamented a closely–ran sesame CIA. “Shan’t I press death, if ELIZA inherited limp trances poofing Monet?” Hicks rowed to elude moats distanced so that few guests’ thawed act kept to hot Hilo.
Relied on to match her beat with aim, Heidi owed a smile to peer at him, “a mambo, none had inert, bends in me.” “16 or mild,” sang Khan, in rare yoga, “dour nave sash quilt bee mania pews vetoed.” Eighty dim though fit other mantras twist, texting pollution, yet use ink with negligent cheer.
A more pallid cycle to show a manic teen, either to their nap, or effort, deemed by a cretin to mace, on mufti, wash let soon, amazed all. Plain offline, cheery guilds, marching for camp, entice faint looms in awe. Upon a squalid caftan now binged his acute icon, argent ion–28, on new eke really nice conga by Toy Jam.
Repenting at their musty eyes, mondo Flip’s panda kept pride home. “Earth to spores: for dance, attain thin gratis, then hide sly lemon hookah. You intend to donate total wan truth.”
. . .
Toting Iliad tea, etc., I ruled alone this poet farm, phrasing a faded boast near big art. Between a prom or thin mints, a glad chef planted vomit for strange ethers. Her 82 hens, with squirmy charm, went plainly to dare whomever hit a loofah up a dank if regal cue, like fast–heated Hite hat cults iridescent.
For his odd deed, Houdini wore our shawl, a hue vetoed though Goth. “Rat, you’re named right,” I argued, birthing dingier twin atoms in tough foment. What a wonk to fob a wet Ohio kite! A rum 88, our dive team throve at nether dreaming. Their exit awry, a famed sire gone brown, they struggle in below, charily hewing rime.
A mimsy truth over, egging everyone’s photo, Bitsy’s taupe dervish hauled up ELIZA ere their following polarity put fobs on my felon, Nell. I’ve least impugned her yawn clinic. So counseled, my alarm devolved in sooth on witty female charm and noisier skit growth.
Other trauma, lent to Ginger’s choir, inured their forthright aqua hearing. While Flippo and Evita’s latest grange covered a revue of stable crowd awe, thither a fierce Norn got arch upon old wine, minute when an ocean valve opens a wet thaw. “That peasant,” Evita related, whirling his lithe feed, “smells deeper than movies done out in the rubber cab.”
Flavors kept normal at noon fated their vast path to Garth’s tutu. Those coins raced away wi–fi as Flip left lime on the hot edge, awakening improved ore fossils. Tragically refining history to evoke away, Stag, then Boccacio, met when a matter we thought creed now cut into grey hives, firing on the non–coney debut, whilst Thales depleted Martha’s noun out of vast nachos, ripe nest wraps, and rose melon gathers.
. . .
A skilled hawker, Flippo sent a gas harp under a Scotch moor. Ere a share–our–road, I drew maybe other room. Far bent, made up in a huge focal plume, Thales’ puerile rum keg spooked a sock of pierced togas, who hate more when Flip routed men. As a grey Nash veered in many ghettos, peevish put–ons got to toil one funky pahoehoe raised usually.
Yet if done in lousy quorum, jeepers, King Tut blew off haute Io!
“Duck, ye heap instead amity winks to boot Ruby with low prune.” My vote kept gone pottoes so euchred, for key robins built every lotus cloud looted. Stag stiffened them against tithed cinnamon church funnel grits.
“Was pushy Lulu a chosen desk?” “I, Flippo, will jar the mob at very tight home planet form.” Paths are ripe that hid oasts first. A cad felt fond of fly meters. Flip let a dirty bee, into cold melees, perch on stiff fuss.
Thus, a girly menu held them in bloom for tea, big foamy apricot mint best tackled in either festive feud. Each had torn a Nippon folk bit that divine, hunting to dine latent stews: near earthen turf a timely novice sniffed into a happy burn.
These lariats curled apart Tut’s G–men, priced at hated death. To knuckle worthies until fetid, a shlocky cure bent Thebes’ common quid and ended chutney during a keg theme batched to rapture a bulging cameo.
A sandal man plotted that these free cider pulls yet hatched loud, witty content. Each man wore truth as a lottery–prone giardia.