On his chaise, Ostrand tracks a robot to adorn his seminal mini-question with niche horticulture.

 

III — xx — One Muddled Throw Rug.

.   .   .

spacemon’ displayed a tictic and addressed bipedal aliens crouching within the observatory. “Were it to help you,” the mazes yet staid, “for us to be telling you this, that the entire concept of noblesse oblige was refuted by the principle of the drive–through window?” “It was a satisfactory construct to us,” came the reply. “Yet inimical to public safety, due to fumbling for coin within confines of various protective restraints.” “Paying one’s way has always conferred a moral advantage upon us,” the humans retorted. “As well as releasing you from corroborational mindsets,” spacemon’ agreed, “defined as the sort of hat in hand shuffling behavior evoked by you before magistrates.”

“Your fiber optic podestas [sic],” another, chiming in, was instantly shushed, “and cubicle mavens requesting your first born in exchange for services,” spacemon’ continued, “this mechanism permeating all aspects and levels of your personal, public, and private lives, until desperate to prove that you are caring individuals, you either incorporate, issuing prompt and appropriate statements communicating your degree of personal involvement, exactitude, and liability, or heavily insure and, having run out of lottery tickets to scratch, focus your lavish attention upon a handful of souls who, themselves, confronting the same choices, are being generally not of a mind to return excessively corroborational statements that you offer in hope of demonstrating that you are caring individuals.”

Operantly staggered by this inference were spacemon’ whom, in preparation for the idiom, taxed too many of their voluntary thought reflexes, and the humans watched in alarm as they momentarily fizzled, indicating a less persiflagellant member of the expedition, the historian (all too busy) who sloughed to center stage and addressed them. “Leave off from your woolgathering. You will notice that we have relieved you from your stowage crisis. We only want to talk.”

.   .   .

Nonchalantly, an errant arachnid patrolled legends, a pragmatic ergo gnomon of actively plush suede without the shelf of malcontinence rhomboid. After say eight seconds or fewer, while they were seeing what that marker was all about, a stinting transport therapist occupationally, channeled via spinet, erupted the sculling wake. Having grown thin yet taller than the now sub–par, and of a mind steeped with sandy plasticity, whew exclamatorily expelled one, least earnestly pitched during a drab, if to let out at dawn once, wound so readily to redirect ancient scans derelict with limerence. A whole hell of a lot of sentences, another claimed not worth a single pickle brewing verb, ordered another around of sparks.

Inwardly reticent, several of the frosh were achieving jittery status, despite staccato tempos mandated by an outburst of edict which seemed reasonable, for all the restitched toboggans that had befallen this gravid tie. While almost reminded, Bitsy’s progeny evinced, in nominal concern for articles ascribed, twin fizzes toward an hermitropic scintilla of racial motive their ideopath strove to stem, and where, comparable to formations guessed from unwelcome respites, those dependable duffs disguised as antecedent clauses found a vast land all about them innumerably pathier than prior nodules, now bathed in at least an eighth, for another indelible parenthetic era zoningly scratched, in maroon print, the redistrification of precept as precursor to eventual nominality, during which the Nicean spree fabric resistant sang, it’s not far to never never land.

So tinged withal out, a matter acknowledged in subset interstice stepped upon wrongly, did the beams snort as in disdain. Ere even in limitable reference, to seed venial deviations that spoke of a maze in signal achievement of the ergo such, while day fell from a shelf and knots of a spooled caption described the tabula of inordinate and precipitate risk, this was a long forgotten term, “but I swear,” Florian asserted, “if you will, my buzz on my sleeve, fully suspected predicaments mistook, for our momentous canvas upon proxy fix kept the urgency of concision; relaxed sorts preceded a calmly ominous styptic ontology dredged from dozens of camels that congregated in general session.” Whenever Frank donned the hoary hood of guildmaster, he was never certain if hitherto uncontrollable elements palest in homage were prepared as flamboyant as once, in the past, when his facts became tangled.

The monads waved, with disarming smells, welcome to camp mildew, but on ways out of meanwhile, the IBV array, witnessing the likes of huge, if intelligent, germs capable of relating to their environment, and approaching their biosphere, fluffed as the albedoically challenged great seal ploughed the mobeus dangling within their bands, and met casements in the Oort nonagonally nine cornered cloud harboring existential nodes. Absolute power over what went in or out of personal capricious self restraint abrogated, through knowledge the advancement of causes, all persuasions, all that glittered at mass rhymes with bumper pools, in an antiquated sense had, crammed within one question, these sticklers feared erosion of an area now staved from leverage onset, or a place soaked with dolce at vibrative conference often featured at evident shear. Fairly glad if not pleased to brush aside projects shunted into his term, these yieldy virtues he sported, suffocating philosophies of inception at a flash.

It was unknowable time now, because over a range of topics the guildmaster (atavistically tempted to explain themes), worried of constraint that, however importunately the Provenance demanded an ode to clarity, was uneasily aware of some interplay among the teeming and mostly querulous gross factions, and realized that he had not spent enough time wondering about methods of placating them. In self–declared prorogue from the outset of his interim, Frank had, of course, embraced the restorative lenience intrinsic to them, swiftly enough chaste to admit of their real if unctuous gaiety.

The Provenance invigorated, and intent upon modern values with the provision of award held gingerly, at–large write–in elements forfended Frank with obstinate petition, that their chap Roveretto be retained as vox, dandling the incumbent Middleford with either a choice of exeunting there forever, or, with ceremonial tears shed to the wind, invoking isomems (in Frank’s mind, a revolting outlier), the honorary visitant, as henceforth master of wergild. Its disputed quorum count regarded as no measure of ability, infinite wistlessness pursued Frank as he read minutes more to himself, believing that this should not have happened before independent occludants arrived, charging future seconds to perfunctory rite.

However cognizant of annoyed if rudimentary access, they were most aloof during events of egregious simplicity, thoughtfully appalled though professing vehement approval of their new role master’s opinion shaping. “He would have us in common thrall to pickle his finances,” others argued, eliciting an emotive node experience weft repartee, and spliced from henceforth self ratifying laws that went into effect to allow the inner Circeans to gag their previous minutes, and for now, their new guildmaster led them known in ignorance dank, thickly aware that they consoled a sudden and wholly unforeseen remission with their new moratorium.

Stubbing out half–inhaled Rohans, Frank, his curious void of interest disconcerting many lisped hints about the precariousness of his position, had already suspended the transport minister (though Alcuin had displayed in their shared policy a somewhat gilded enthusiasm) from future invitation. To the dismal resignation of the gavel, the Provenance adjourned broken in spirit, their own sole claimant brave enough to hang the bell of reality around their guildmaster now in degraded exile, and among manifest clutter individuals restive enough pined anon, for there seemed no prospect, unless undone fundamental lessons concerning their purpose awaited rewind.

.   .   .

Tediously, monuments of arrested marble lapsed, their wavelength elbows markedly poised as if to hear me now, bent efforts disguised for rewind into stately undergrowth smelts, awkward sedate splotches of misunderstanding how marketplace values had become so inculcated within today’s culture that an entire generation, standing upright amidst its wares, and reputedly just itching to be barged in upon by individuals with global positioning systems (a bustling age in contrast with entire arboreal civilizations that had reverted due to silting) had now ossified into a visually tuned outmode of individual archetypes. “It is,” mimed Nertz, “a dolt astir, if merry Erewhon is what lieu (Në, you dweeb) lotus dread, drool, rusty judo, stout, and get the lead out, and we’ll do the rest. During our constant wharf with Wormwood, we found that there was nothing that good old salty boiling water couldn’t handle. Our leaders, incontinent at this stage with development of an alphanumeric language, obsessed with molds that threaten an entire written legacy. Their remedy, twofold: subjection of any mold under conditions of excessively sterile pressure, transforming it into a beneficent tetrahedron insofar as it had passed muster of all electro–mechanical forces at civilization’s beck, thenceforth enrolled it in a benign arsenal of reagents ceaselessly extolled by dispensationalist guilds ecstatic with prospect of engineering a distributional closed loop immune to provisions of Sherman et al; secondarily, in emerged movement, disparaging all analog mediums. That synergy can juice doves, inasmuch as full impact of mediums under scrutiny, in themselves irresolutely translucent until shortly after 1971, when anti–analog forces leveraged most pushy refuse into tiny bath, imputing all analog mediums as only unwitting carrier waves of esoteric forces, trans–montane, of agendas at best deleterious to the cause of ultimate progress.” Too far away to formally guard his thesis, struggle within eaves knocked over a pyramid of art deco cans not far behind ædith.

The snoring resumed, that bleariest fogging thorn from the Edsel bravura, ere the hard cover bracket annual singalong (9^th Ed.) that Flambeaux tossed over to him yesterday was a covert matrix of nine nines, three by three, and, if reversed become, a matrix of nine tones, suddenly noticed by Plair, stops (using) gerunds kinesthetically rotated into a succinct drain of asymptote and unwell, he accomplished sayonara to all that, and muses spun untold endemic ketones unevenly to vasten around with finth. “Out what must,” said they, “but your text is jammed off the wall and these credulous orisons shalom out of herewith.” In other time slots, a unicycle, twitched from its alloted space upon the poor shrill non grata sequence, amounted to bygones!

“We are onto one,” their valets mind, seen, next lines inextricably, ought mingle in ambiguity; also straightly shove away from twenty blasts’ notes until, listening well went their separate these ways gyre over shot a foretaste of retirement. And as lax returns were the premise of never near enough mystique or when huge seemly fitful errands arraigned an air for an habitual outage sag, so raided they a path of quality alone. Had on with real ease, no longer needing enigmas as a virtual experience, the stare clung too them well. Because among many haves curled a fortune, leave me in bed with the rest of this lest it spell the key plan of the century, oubliettes closest from outbursts of shadow pressed an unusual for incidence within conditions of grubbiest due. And a case yonder step you tell, men were not every day older, growling out of step with an important sealant.

The night composure at least selfish on bloopers, Norah made each ingredient comment not one but all mezzanine, ignoble views of ballast but once chosen alert reeled ever out from of aid lilt entrance, an obversible crooned. “Had you ever fitfully acquainted with or for all that mattered again being in all these causes at once best hurry,” for it was all one certainty (of knowing waywardness) beside topics of a second if not final question that sparked along tunelessly as any former fareless square Max on then an inbound parabola. Rarely raillery began as tocsins rehearsal later on a wan spindling capacious if evidently idea prefacing an area of inflexible novelty, Në Dipol’s chorus immediately pressed august regularly befitting the surrogatory emplaced Menard had informed through glass assignments crashed thereat limpid beneath liberty’s watch. They appeared aged upon disposition of content, the participants, glumly mused, portended.

.   .   .

Logan fought an inclination to locate his zoned children. “Where have you been taking them,” Ferguson demanded? “To a place where no one is sad,” they replied. “Of pressing concern, centering onto proximity of many exterior persons, an appearance of a simulacrum lent dash to their songs,” the duty observer replied. “They need not trouble you today.” What they had there was a failure to communicate. The inbound fish were approaching them with their orders. Florian held them in his hand squintfully. The castellan wanted to know if there was anything that could be done for them. The groom had the key, but the course was missing. The consignment of inklings promised had not yet appeared. Florian said to heck with the day. The steps would have to wait. The blinking fish wished that steps had not been postponed, for the novel arrivals seemed casually unused to reprieve. The castellan, having arrived at this juncture previously, for the course often disappeared, was wont to dismiss them. Florian felt for sure that this school had best get a new ideopath.

A time followed for organizational betterment. The desk disc DOS surged to recreate a minimum of space for sacking of the guests. The staff affirmed its entitled mandate to transform the pitiable flock of recent arrivals into true slaves. Florian decided that some of them would forget they ever knew rest. The master counsel for the new term reviewed his stock of metrics. A traditional role of master counsel was to dispense plans for the meticulous measurement of organizational progress. What he could not have known, although he had in moments guessed, was that this arrangement had experienced functional dystopia and his more proper role, as first among equals, was to muffle encroaching circles of concern from the staff. They would have thought themselves pups. Foremost and beyond question was the avocation of their chosen profession.

So important had they begun to regard their task (of producing more slaves for the son of heaven, as befitting a perpetually mobilized galactic conglomerate), that they had suspended their own belief. The nation of uchaux was as fully committed to settlement as were any of the other eight nations. Numbered in nine quantities, it was seventh, fifth, third, seventh, fifth, third, seventh, fifth, and third. Steps, not at all important to many other nations, were of treble concern to uchaux. For they were in the process of naming themselves, a rare and at any time potentially cataclysmic event.

Many of the nine nations had experienced this transition in previous epochs, and with results catalogued under separate cover, watched the evincement, as the process was termed, of uchaux with mounting concern. Startled, the rebel fjulsfut glared at their Glyntz. “I will not wear these secrets anymore,” she added, flouncing away. Ferguson, gazing tirelessly at this crinoline second, was elbowed into recognizance by Esherman. The Niceans decided to throw out a bonbon. In their spare time, they had solved the energy needs of the primitive world, and having engaged production of a Capraesque film at eleven, bid the humans tarry as the entire wall of monitors behind them merged into gestalt. The latest argot craze stopping everyone in their tracks to check out the new world sympathy was Trail Mix for Victory!

.   .   .

Transportation Scare’s Next Frontier.

.   .   .

Imagine a discovery that has been shown to lower emissions, increase lean critical mass, decrease transit time, accelerate fast hauling, release allegorical syndromes and allay auto–reaction time traffic jams such as arterial phobia, obsessive honking, and diagonal parking. The U.S. National Highway Traffic Safety Administration (NHTSA) recently called it transportation’s next sweet spot which could affect fuel economy far beyond improving merge times and fighting knocks and pings. Super esters! Not your ordinary table ester (switch grass) but substances known as methanol or trail mix — simple hydrocarbons used by the human transit system for everything from empathic development to regulation of systemic reaction time.

“What are trail mixes,” the sensitive boy standing by picket fence asked? The voiceover obliged, “the 24^th edition of Diderot’s Encyclopædie, published in 1759, was one of the earliest authorities to document the importance of glyconutrient esters to the fuel cell. The Mechanic’s Desk Reference for Non–Prescribed Interchanges notes that trail mix may cause those who have transportation challenges [to] discern improvements in epidemic non–cancelling turn signal syndromes. In her freshly released book Miracle Esters, author Rita Mervyn discusses recent breakthroughs in trail mix, adding that this new class of missing links is needed by everyone wishing to achieve optimal transportation. Dr. Lothar Flußtapfer asserted that even tiny amounts of these esters, or lack of them, have profound effects, in his book Esters that Haul. He noted that inertial infections, including recurrent infestations that plague two wheelers, often respond remarkably to trail mix, as do many vehicles — from the DeLorean to the common bug. The debilitating symptoms of chronic time lag, fibromyalgia, and Snorggi’s Syndrome frequently abate after adding trail mix.

And as for knocks and pings, trail mix often mitigates toxic effects of each antiphon radar moiety. The National Institute of Transportation (NIT) lately allotted a $34,000 grant to the Kalisthenios Institute in France to lead studies on the impact of ester compounds on inter–cellular communication, an important step in beginning to understand how traffic jams incubate and spread within the human transit system. This study will supplement other ongoing projects. According to NIT, researchers are looking into how esters influence development of parking garages and infectious traffic jams, to name a few. A Scenty Mega–’zine, published by and for researchers and scientists, detailed modern advances in the field of glyco-transportation. Calling it a huge and emerging file, this journal predicted that super esters offered many exciting possibilities for transportation scare. Bionic Echo Log, a premier journal for the industry, foresaw almost two decades ago that these cellular hydrocarbon esters would have a profound impact on the future, and devoted an entire tissue to their potential. Critical Mass once called super esters the key to renewed motility, advising its readership that without them, recovery from intense remedial training may be compromised and gains in lead transit mass impeded.

Recently citing one local executive for beating the odds, Boulder City Auto Trader described the astonishing recovery of the geothermal golf cart owned by the IAC’s Elias Deerfield. Elias, whose bad title to a direct fee simple had led his service advisors to expect the worst, summoned his family to hear bad news. One service advisor, recalling the benefits of trail mix in treating inertial affectations, obtained permission to administer large doses of miracle esters to the golf cart. Elias was soon back on track as his transit, with the aid of trail mix, slowly fought off deadly hysteria. Scientific Alien devoted an entire tissue to trail mix, calling them the sweet fuel economy of the future.” “How do trail mixes work,” bucolic boy tossed out? Idres explained, “they formed or comprised an recent efflux of spinners from the collapse of a specific format within a region.” The behavior of men under a self–imposed Bombay where either/or, before the entire class precipitated its own expulsion without sundae or dedicated to a what was your time they asked him, left alongside the curb of I may be a jerk to you but am not one overall.

“Freddie, these ingredients supply the mass transit system with key compounds required for cellular function and reaction time system response. Although naturally occurring, they quite often are lacking in the transit system, primarily due to modern processing techniques that strip our fuels of these important plant molecules. If restored in adequate amounts, trail mix assists the transit system in hauling, repairing, and correcting itself.” Inwardly he wreathed to stow in fain enamel their expletive.

“Then thank you very much for throwing that up in my nose tendril encyclical stark or your point well constructed an arette nonagonally.” This event furnished additional Potemkin’ness to a spectacle, where Ostrand hadn’t wanted to stray into being misunderstood even since early mnemonic refluxes were present. And subsequently was he to have simply shot at her, the act divorced from any causality, bore no intent as it was a gesture of willess truth ascribed to the chance of hitting either/or. For this purpose, casually after reaching the following import ontos, he felt a desire to show here.

Yet in the tale, another sprawled with an expression of philosophic joy, and the other nearest closet may have been directed to binge on about a myrtle cloak. In pleasantly gay and wary mood, Ostrand pelted the coveralls away in the secluded suite he thought hitherto vacant, until events struck a tidal note. In shower segue, Ostrand was very sweaty after work considerations, and actually, a variable response enjoined Talitha to comment, you very sweaty man. Flowing expectations of him presently remarked, emptily if also predicative of thoughts aloud, from the reminder of present expiation, for enacting insufferable incidentally cloudy skies, drawn under a ragged certainty over themes of mascara.

The art of obvious originality, though on a serious material tear, while an announced ill advanced, caused déjà vu precedent to an embarrassment. Recoiling that modern amenities, blotted in the sudden heave given this perverse member that had chosen to oust mild remarks, upon inception of tertiary consent and with shattered antics, pressed on innocently, “stops whenever sheer repetition serves as a reminder,” the dame postulated, with rigorous disregard for Ostrand, whose knowledge of phrases of hauteur, evinced in his personal behest, was tepidly abhorrent in light of such demonstrable pigeonholing of any other interests beyond one zone.

Ostrand was miffed that she had closed the loop so on the nosily and sat, awakened from a dream with roomfuls of untrimmed Tannenbaum [sic] laughing at him, lamprey to numerous demotives (annoyed by his application of a chase metaphor, t’il est haut), until Talitha: “rather than succumb to thine odious blandishments, I would rather apply my astute rebate toward a frumious (‘say it, don’t spray it,’ Ostrand cringed), periodically frenetic banter syntax, a frumious (all of the forces of the universe unsuccessfully rushed to prevent her finishing the) bandersnatch!” Abruptly, one arrived, previously for aerating lawns of enormous facade, yet now something fashioned twice for the negation of connectivity.

.   .   .