To chat with 13 hunches, Henry (VII) sells roubles to a small diptych, yet a storm, heard at dawn, hath glimmers of a first phaeton.

 

III — xii — Overuse of Time with Occasional Space.

.   .   .

Presently Plair, quite recovered, paid a visit to the skater who thwarted his exit from the vale of tears. They had a sing–along upon the fate of humanity. Strains of Pathetique from the patient’s iPod set the stage of the hospital room. “Your position,” as guest of our Village, began ædith, “requires you to attach undue fondness to our provider.” “Would you rephrase them,” Iphgene asked? “Eyewash and ear candy. The works of A. Bruckner are preferable,” admitted the aging heliocentrist. “All of his symphonies,” Iphgene said, “sound alike, being chased by a monster in a bad dream.”

.   .   .

The American experience (a miniscule Yule log sputtered in the grate sophistically), of grips unstageable, disfurled usualness given market share that epochs, if eyed flatly, this tribe an algorithm of bored, naive tiffs, were last torque implied, withstood nothing.

“If you are only for yourself, then what are you?” Talitha shrugged, reigned, misclear, compact, shrouded by diaphanous lust; in practice bailing, Horace wanted to etch this misdressed bid within a current, seeding arguably last astonishment of a ripple occasioned by these rival bands that grew into our time, recreated as a lack of yesterdays, guessing that meant a world of neo–anachronism, ran for preset dents. In a fabric of septic soil we, as any whom fail to seem of Euclid, avert surer answer. Or swifter can 1 best use the last half, hours in wistful space part, with amber sheaths until, rueful with spring, its number cried for post–dileuvean discourse? Earlier served areas cared instead, five hundred year epics ended and, Hesitance, to turn a page, an invisible hand rotated to glean, from assorted cost could skip that grasped experience no longer proof of stagflation.

In shallow ways, Talitha rose, not unimportunately, yet alert to an alacrity of if only, the line doubted to tear across with could here circumvent the Ruthenian stockade, or had this borne a similar emission of littoral yarn? In arguably a mostly personal glimpse, Horace blinked at a bitter sibilant mote and shook annoyingly as the diva fled, lending ear to her remark was it awful? How had he known such, Thledvirrson in wan dialect recounted restitution and felt of no mood to explain it to the snooping heap. She had risen from her couch when Horace, recovering track, whispered that Delphinium would depart within the fortnight. “And here is the registry of title.” “The owner will prove of use.” “Quo vadis [sic]?” Aware of the arrangement, Talitha blinked noncommittally. The Trombone Society awaited and they split without an indication of consort. “Therein lay the genius of his proclivity,” ædith declaimed the ensign. “Not unlike Gaussier” — “the rigid improvisationalist,” Iphgene interrupted?

“A great composer,” ædith pronounced, “who lived across from your summer houses, Gaussier, indeed, was renowned for his striking variations. But he dried up, refusing to use more than once a coda. During his career, he continued to perform interpretive keyboard variations, and by age forty, was a spendthrift. Let that be a lesson unto us.”

.   .   .

Always understanding where the mail rooms had almost been, the mutant vole (duty observed at the rarest of times) released reverse polarity and walked into his own time bomb. “At the start this is a burden of joy,” aedith ruled, Plair, “expecting only your belief that a demonstration of selfless devotion will earn you this key to the ad show. Even as you lie to yourself that you except nothing from it at all.” Spot dispensing posts of the transcendent cell, another titled being of the fifth noted no further redundancy within.

Collated reports from all about them corroborated sightings of several incidents, involving a likely ensconcement of recurring finth. At best, like dogs they throve on crumbs swept from the table. The first of them arrived in profusion, and belief in the beginning of a wonderful thing, of reciprocation, and of rapport, with such an abundance of gratitude, they did not realize that, being moss troopers by nature, the race of ninth, little remarked upon within inter–regnum, but for complete details deferred, were immune from the entire catalog of trail mix deprivation effects. They threw out the first microcosm. They attempted other tasks, that at first took on a certain luster, satisfied as they were with having maintained an image of selfless special sometimes; finth the mist easily stirred by and, as leading opinion ever went, had no ultimate designs upon any visible system.

Then weeks passed without crumb, and other tasks turned too stale to intimate upon improvident resumption of undiminished reinvestment, yet with an edge of resignation, an expectation of ultimate failure, the relentless efficiency they stamped upon any edifice, arrived at (by finth themselves), was a topic best left at the camp coolers, the water fires, and other places of uncertain refuge where the other eight strains used to amass for exchange of tales that concerned considerably alarming, frightful perversities. Binaca’s children during the gigue occurred in her listless mood infra–indigo. Bitsy, since preparing the intercept estuary, saw them ran at the dusk like a crack in the foundation, brackish hazel. For three or four days the Marquis had pled acuity, and as soon would have seen brought up an ash which had been around and down so long that it ceased to be a source of worry. This was a project of civic complexion.

Amidst constant and usual arrivals attentive to one super ingredient, a room of specific threat posed to dial a new asynchronous agenda: the proto–spectrum massage establishment medium featured unchecked and immemorable, ala test finis; tierce over, yet waxing liberally, primal co–bipedaliens stared back at the lens as if they were ready to have words for us. Visiting hours were almost over. So in retrospect, what other famous isthmuses remained to be discovered, briefly an asymptotically (in deflecting rods) rum image, born of angles, spanned immeasurable relativity. Whomsoever were left to descriptivate what befell the IBV array upon Mt. P.’s foothill, unless their thwarted load, Alcuin, able to struggle from the rout, gaining somewhat in time to apply his stamp upon the outcome; easily suede by confident counsels of perfect aspiration, the minister of transportation shelved his misdoubt, turning sleuth on a most late winter morning solute with the chorus of dour obiters. Always finding Noone in recognizance of a restive longing for things, he was aware of the cause for untoward lights directed into the present origin.

The secretive night of wonder ended, beneath their feet, the historian logged their tapper turned toward a mucillage earthrise that will reveal them alone among strangers. However they were rational beings, their chef d’cabinet, drawing from an aggregate of custom, had assembled a doctrine. As truth dawned, that there was no future in this, they began to develop constructive coping strategies. “It is over, alas,” they admitted, older and wiser, and suddenly another crumb arrived. finth especially enjoyed visiting compact corporealities that approached absolute simplicity in design, which made their tapper a solid state sitting duck, unfortunately. There were instant suspicions. The first person had so finally come around to what made this one different, unlike perhaps many of his kin who no longer really cared, a fact contributing greatly to diminished motility of inter–regnum, that this tapper, a sentient snorting freighter, signaled an immediate objection concerning neglect of chef d’cabinet to enact existing finth infestation denial procedure, that was to close the circuit completely and funnel resultant gauss into the path of the imminent finth ship with hopes of deviating it finally until, leaving you to explain why, if with no further interest, and wounded by the other’s long neglect, out of natural courtesy, fear of giving offense, and a basic sincere motive, hope, they accepted the crumb.

Assisted by the historian (all too busy) in bitter stillness, the chef d’cabinet wired back, sending specific citations invoking precedent. Historical examples where finth had been able to refute induction abounded. At Blandizona, inter–regnum proved unprepared to heap much gratitude upon finth as their schematic appeared untrustworthy. Undeserving of future crumbs, they had forfeited their right to further exigence. This they followed with an avalanche of attention at the battle of Antipodes, when in saner moments, they embarrassed their obstacles. Never mind that if an attempt to relate to their inaction was of rote carousel live and in love, they were no longer the same. At Ragnorak Final Approach, their every action was virtually riddled with nodes no longer valid because procedure, enacted complacently, fell far short of desired expansion.

A certain calculative cunning entered, masked by the deception that they were selfsame. A makeshift equilibrium occurred. “May it last years,” scrapmon’ pried, “depending on our native creative energy. We’ll develop further outpourings of devotion.” This tiff, the tapper was persuaded, would be adeptly managed. “This is our second fatal mistake, more grievous for its fidelity.” Truly aware of their moral bankruptcy, lacking courage to ask the question they truly desire, they become conterminous even whilst sentiments of lasting loyalty decompose. There was to be no woolgathering, out–sitting, or other conscious display of sentiment. “We think perhaps if they might simply stop giving, the affair will shrivel up into forgetfulness, freeing us.” At a glance, first in the mirage pooled from names anon, the fuse of protraction had, thrown from encanvassing isomers, also been emanated from heliocentrist beliefs.

.   .   .

Hewn systemically amid anemic rheological proofs improbable at an earlier time, when popular perception discarded uneventualities as expressive of now, in view of mass wiring, someone had to be able to dream, or were many only nearer to thee? Neither Deerfield, ædith, nor Iphgene had to tell Alcuin to listen to his Falernian this morning. The deck teemed with protozoans, upon which the sill of a minute arch occurred in blue sparks, trailing; a cinched ouzel alike (Mel, who viewed the spin that italicized appellants were loath to emulate, poised upon a mere), reckoning, from leftover press last night, that half the senate, threatened into bilking procedural issues from within, connived upon Park’s previous enablement of districts to celebrate more tabled Gaga equity–anticipated encyclical spans of granted development.

Yet so obstreperous were solons concerning nominations of a jurist whose premier action involved redistrification of the Elk Hills sub–infeudation, and for whom each sieve wore chiffon so deep within hearings, that even Menard shied from rebuttal and evinced the formal prehensility of sponsoring the sinuously sedulous sand piper as next, they said a sub–profession may have been clad with ire options nervelessly, were the strategic ploy of wrenching the spigot to the left if not to lose a spendable stipule laity.

To his way of thinking, they would have me tossed and too shallow to owe leal inklings that had exodized from the east so ruminatively, as to one in habitual immure synod who would not admit even an entire whizzer had ever set up there having reminded them of the complete inneccesity of panic. Whole etiquette, blotted reference elsewhere in topical behavior, concerning mastery of quorum droves who reticently, while hapless cusp words enfranchised a stolen electoral reintroduction of craft, required tall and glaring charts; amidst those tall chests, the erstwhile Menard squinted at a crepe so fallow until he had grounds for admission of an intractable roof, level with relevant strains that left obvious fleams untenet.

What jangled buoys served as tocsin for never paeans truly or would rate dear average found well, my ease, not snapping with the fifth’s ubiquitous resonance they invented, instead slouched uncertainly, as edgily as a reverse comb affixing receipt of delimitation of the all unglowered term here, the relaxant of degrading snow cones there, that meaningless resection of letters rearranged arguably in minimal deference to understandable lines of reason, probability, or logic. Insofar as rebel fjulsfut were concerned, out here was no place for finth. Unfortunately, through sedulous efforts, thought vain if not sterile, something had, independent of them, taken root.

That was most unsettling, addicted as they were to control. Veneering, as they labeled the tradition of burdening exploration with principle, had stained inter–regnum into a corner. “To the illusion of being able to turn one’s emotions on and off, as with a tap.” With this toast, many–limbed fjulsfut brushed aside ethical considerations raised by the expedition’s historian (all too busy) and, freed from tactical constraints, the community assistance program proceeded to even accordingly. “This dark flower, our love, despite our yearning, our shame, our conviction that we’re crumbs of the earth, takes on a life of its own.” All of the out lights were left on. But perhaps that too is deception, wrought by the false hope that there must be some fruit to their labor, when in fact love is notwithstandingness.

Finthector, well within time, arrived, and an entire faction found occupants, in mottled garb and turmoil, weaving out of foremost focus and in no seemly state. Experience had shown that all too often they succeeded as a result (the faction moil yawning referentially) of feeble efforts. A murky crystal (an ancient answer) veiled the prize from them. “We’ve long given up the expectation that something will come of all this, and a certain haggard peace endows our features.” Then one day arrived not a crumb. As an adjunct shoved under the bridge to decry the visit drew tag, the stricken craft mimeographed wistful instructions to abandon itself. Not a crumb, but a declaration of lasting value. “Our efforts have convinced the other at last. Beware that day! It is what we have always desired. The party is finally on.” finth had seen enough. Too long accustomed to a starvation diet, nonplussed by unexpected surrender and counter proposal, they seized the opportunity to reflect on it.

This adjustment afforded uncertain, fleeting dissatisfaction. As the reel snapped to a whiffling close the historian (all too busy) turned to face the class. Finthector, well within truth, chanced this craft, far from derelict and harboring detriment, would prove less apt at withstanding them soon. Seeking to compensate for annotated elsewhere clarity, chronology mandates, that henceforth all miniaturized transaction items within accomplished biennial priors, for during a windy orange autumn day, everyone was about as actively furtive, until kick me the denoted scrawl, pinned on a height posed, wrought possible lenticular gliding formations. A person of no interest, preoccupied with peering into the reeking chasm, whose sigh aloud for only her fortnights or more, had, through inclemence, gauzed oversight of omission began jauntily enough, although her precipitate exit suggested the intolerability of Chad’s prescence with the ascent of downwind slopes leading to the place looking in upon a vast incanted ocean of froth.

And what may the waxing quarter south, lately natural, portend from an extra mellifluous ode, the northwest wind had brought this list, someone said, and as antiphonies snowballed for a chance at it, and hitherto out being laminated, given now not one hoot to think or conflate, aren’t we all just on a glow in the dark ball hurtling through space? There was no reason to concur, since Logan replaced the receiver but was rattled instantly with fresh rings. Startled at the voice of their author, Binaca, he began, “daughter, I have had time to reflect upon my thoughts, my words, and my actions.” “Dad, we’re beyond all dysfunctional moments.” “Say again?” “Promises, at day’s end. No more for the rest of us. We leave you,” Binaca said. “Tell was so nice to the children.”

There was no getting over the news. “They’ll remember you,” Binaca continued. “No,” Logan repeated at times. “Goodbye.” “Wait,” Logan pled. “We’ll love you too.” “We’ll love you off at least during all of this.” This evening, the Reverend Ferguson recalled, was now morning where they were. Dually slighted, he shivered a moment, recalling a plan, dourly hatched open during halcyon times when more came down a little further than fact. Too many irons glowered staunchly might hie, he recalled, past the last bee of autumn fifing at them in seminary, just to be ruthlessly swatted by the sacrist, who returned them to his own attention.

.   .   .

Learning of misconstruction, Henry (VII) contributed to his main sense thereof, for all was of the frankest scan. If considered exceptional after only one adventure in musical svelte porte dangling, a man in retrofit, garbled during the trip edgewise world–in (so much for developing a grandson to eminent facade), or premise which his dada had rutted into upon acceptability, that others would not beatify the approach of the repentant scion; yet for Noone, beyond darkness, who ran now in regular ripples, conducted over a sink when the glowering adept vilified us and, for having raised at odds mental banners of foment that plunged the entire inventory in legally civil unrest, was now simply vague.

Iraisamonde’s ailment, now known, as time, times, and half a time (Dan 7:25), taxed whatever happened to your beloved’s crystal. As tale for the ages, chance, sometimes ascot twinkles reward us, but our entire system is given over to it. Two parties began, always reasonably subtrahended over advantages inherent in technological advancements, as if someone actually had power to confer every preference upon the lamp. “I knew I hadn’t,” Henry (VII) said to the beautiful shade. “At that, mome shadow puppet refused me. Had He rotely prostrated face first into dust, before the heavens my falsehood would have been undone, and my encyclopedia of preposterous effects exposed.”

“Then your point was,” the shade replied, offering more brackish sauce? “Whatever possessed you to go out on the lamb like that?” “Volition,” the King of the Romans replied, fishing about in his bear suit absently. “The land is against me. Oh, here it is,” a tiny green illuminated manuscript, smoldering at the edges, curled in his grasp, “‘life has no romance without meaning.’ For you know I am nothing but an entire Sturm und Drang mouldered upon beliefs and teachings.” Couched in refulgence, one seemed to nod, yes, we refused often the tag along. “I was very sad to learn of the results,” Henry added. The recent travails had sharpened the shade’s powers of observation. “You speck of life,” it said, “yet you are not life. You are non–existence. You are anti–life.”

“Let’s not get into that,” Henry replied in a perplexity of surplus. “You know, well not personally, being inanimate, but those of your spirits indwelt, that you need me, for kicks if nothing else, your songs depict my joy at your miniseries, oh never mind, I can expect more mercy from shadow puppet Himself than from any of you. Yes, to a point I was negation. I was not alive. Yet at that moment, when He rebuked me, my nostrils flared with purpose. It grieves me daily, yet I have assiduously executed the part assigned to me. I dismissed those wolves in cheesecloth who, intent upon mulcting the faithful, posed as wise counselors. I signed onto the municipal Liber Augustalis of 1231, even if executive authority was thereby limited.”

Like most, if not all recent shades, well schooled in intricacies of scholastic thought, this anthropomorphism greeted his lugubrious sighs with silence. “I” — “you still haven’t made an ass of yourself,” the shade interjected. “You say you are misrepresented. If you are such a picaresque and jolly fellow to begin with, why in His name have you allowed these ukases to be served upon your poor subjects? Am I that uneasy to get along with?” Henry drew a deep breath. Forasmuch as he had sought reconciliatory ground within the present divestiture crisis, his lot was up and the sacrist Fr. Anselm, who had noted this anabasis colloquy with growing alarm, and in fact fervently wished for a change of venue, for Henry was perilously close to ferreting this hidden passage, had timidly motioned for one of his brethren to pull the monarch from the glowering lamp when the latter tore his tract to shreds.

“I refuse to answer any more of your questions,” he shouted at the lamp, and did not recognize its authority anymore. “Show me your seal. Where is a duly appointed inquisitor? You prissily stake upon each trembling ray, and since your kind have such a predilection for it, we shall let the wheel decide. Were a litmus — ” suddenly he paused agape in great wonder and the sacrist tremulously noticed that Henry had spotted the path to the dread realm of wishram. Hesitance, summoned in a self–perpetuating parody of progress, sought to console the disconsolate brethren.

“He will remember none of this in the morning,” the occludant said, yet they froze while Henry eyed the vast obsidian monolith covered with scaffolds and scrawls, where a lorn chalky figure within ciphered incessantly. “The author,” the lamp dilated, “whom, for his presumption and blasphemy, is doomed four sunspot cycles to diagram his own sentence.” The monarch glared upon vast clarifying ponds and laterals fed with sodium hexaflouride that emanated from distant Machiavellian domes leading therein; in the foreground eldritch digesters belched forth ammonium permanganates that were snapped up by frenetic fishes. “It is time,” the sacrist decided, “to explain to him, before one of the uchaux arrived, of the great works currently in progress.”

“Not,” replied Hesitance, “unless you wish to reinforce what he currently regards as merely appalling vision.” At the moment of exigence, scattered bands of lemur appeared to wrench the great rift closed; sounds of turmoil ceased, and Henry, pale as ash, flung himself upon a divan, seemingly ready to forget events with a new draft of Proust’s nickle soda; an order that, while Hesitance surreptitiously switched the beautiful lamp, Fr. Anselm fulfilled with exaggerated haste. “What diverse parlors were those,” the King of the Romans asked, draining the tankard, and sharing with assembled well wishers many of our national attributes, such as a fetish for eye contact, or an inability to restrain oneself?

Surrounded by an administration, bent upon entropic belief in the value of talk, and were they quite simply to draw the world out, all issues would evanesce into a general haze of progress and goodwill, Henry’s years of service had frankly immured him to any other rational hope, and he suddenly longed to return to his quiet study hung about with great macramé tapestries assembled by his fair queen, Margaret of Austria, and her ladies, upon which were emblazoned three great rules of his life, en la lente festinar [sic] (hurry slowly), question bumper stickers, and now is never a good time. He rose unceremoniously, grumbling enough of this blare static protest flout destiny, waving aside offers of further hospitality.

Fain as he was to see the benefactor go without further incident, Florian natheless blurted, “all wisdom comes at a price.” To this Henry gave ear, and now the sacrist had no choice but to recall a twisted, if oft–rehearsed, narrative pertaining to ethos of heavenly monads, whose deft adherence to principles of Realpolitik could, in the not so distant future, end many wars and recessions and spare mankind much grief.

.   .   .