Were this part shorter or malaprop, blotto rite system theatres by-pass group colophon.

III — xiv — Dignitaries Ruled Available Positions.

.   .   .

Into health control, Manasseh Rabbi Esherman, in fewer than happy thoughts, barged hoping that a seam of inspector–corporeal would suffice. The OD had never seen Në before. Consulting operational directives, s/he read of the bearer’s authority to review all certificate bean stream mailers to anything hot. Squashing hatted monitor assembler vans all even, though ever lax with each grand tedious vista, Justine surged to ghost finis the lately camping fusion carom–ium, as happy to see the rest of her shift fobbed on the off chance newcomer. Very archaic, the devices, s/he commented, altering Esherman through this detector which, promptly rippling off, admitted an apologetic search. Manasseh was told Në did not choose to touch each spud thrift.

Telephones chirped and the badge, Manasseh surmised, to placate dabbling interest in heraldry. His gruff release of adage eliciting beneficent smiles from the twinkling voice online, s/he waved beyond the counter. The room contained six stations. Five were enough for conga line visits. Manasseh assumed post at the fur scanner. “How many fingers am I holding,” he addressed the occupant who, wearily alarmed by our sudden location overhead, said, “wishes could have been more albeit than evolution’s ticketed sham refill.” The attorneys thrived in, being less numismatic mustily. “Seeing such debunkers of usual slight? Yea for by–products of misfortunate zeal.”

Ion stared at the hand. “I will not part with the community,” he said spitefully. Esherman, his thorough hatfuls of desire, reflective of deeper infinitives, asked whether messianic needs of the community were somehow psychedelic? “Nature, no doubt was their hope of sainthood.” Through teleconference, Logan strobed initially, “in some circles perhaps. Porphyry wrote off habit as dependent.” They found their segue flared fitly from earlier workouts and sponsored in mania worthwhile cause. “Yet Echo risked setting you up for it, the ebbing current of revolutions that lifted your deed. Alcuin’s connectives dozed while traffic merely shifted, and whomever you irradiated weren’t spared much trouble with Ruthenian entities. Eventually might such so well be canon had Menard not retrieved one.”

“You raised his headset,” Ion shook an eyebrow? “Your entirely correctly indeterminacy,” Logan continued, “sent to your credit, the slithery upheaval sellers discovered an undercurrent. The unheralded opinion war of 1997 caused so many emblematic harrassments that the Parisian government ceaselessly expunged mostly profitable cash crows that placated universal adulation.” Ion said, “that isn’t mostly flouted. They cannot concern.” “Yet they did,” Logan retorted, “and more’s the authority. Deflected ex post facto bigwigs (as were you once), merely precursed, touring in loyal hopes of existence, and as such trifled downwind until they were told, if not so much bothered, to find you’ve now landed wherein?”

.   .   .

In Like Means the Sentence Was Abandoned.

.   .   .

An inchoate echo of relief seeped, beneath the nap of established opinion, that promise of existing strife. That history might be reordered, as casually as return of an open container wafting past old inviolate bored terrain conditions sounded by and moved among new cameral dies, cast an ordinal shadow among thitherto legitimately acceptable ensembles. Mock parliaments, annually summoned, for edifice, assented to remain standing long after all other foreshortening endured. False justness and scary stuff caused a pause in the enterprise. Engaged in a relentless buyback of relinquishing certificates (when Jasmine’s cameral deed framed Thledvirrson, our worst nightmare who’d emanated from regions of electrostatic shock, her grandfather summoned collective chairs of Internet Board of Comptrollers, International Comptrollers Commission, and Center for Imaginary Assistance (relate those treks through alphabet aisles and being told enough to ring do not disturb placards), whose spice racks spanned the globe onto buffered compartmentalization).

Incensed when alma maters had lampooned the prophet, Talitha had submitted to the faith and attended her twenty–year reunion with a burkha. Also traced in Ossian with a fellow traveller (at whose photo Menard had gone deadpan), she was reckoned most dangerous when disgusted with her actions. Their alloy only darkness, akin to compound interest, Menard, in receipt of manifests emanating from the Ossianian Hermitage, did straitly assign persons, to search for salable items matching inventories specified in lading, with dual intent. Beamed up on a spotlight, the wrecker slowed before, wreathed in mists, the all–night paella roadhouse where State Highway 400 met the Barcelona Stage. Awakened after midnight, with fewer than two hours’ sleep, to jerk a river dance troupe bus out of the Ebro, whence it had plunged after occupants, disembarked to picnic, loosed the emergency brake, the wrecker’s driver, Ostrand Ampersand, felt he deserved an extra prospect of rapid service, which diminished as motley fleets of truck gathered before the concourse.

Through ripples of fog two workers, recognizable in provincial coveralls, stumbled from the vestibule as beads of moisture collected upon lenses of the B&L photo–tints worn by Ostrand regardless of hour. The jukebox was accidentally kicked, forcing the stylus to skip four selections. Conversation died in gloom as a half–dozen switchblades flickered to the tune of I cannot get enough of you baby seasons in the sun. Ostrand stooped, pulled the plug, emptied a half–drained pitcher of Pilsener, apologized, and ordered sambuca for the house. As silence subsided into begrudging rumor, Ostrand wiped his glasses at the common table, dimly lit by an ungainly tallow pillar spluttering fitfully from the steamed house specialty. Ostrand, reaching carefully into his vest, tugged out a worn envelope.

Three other men, unknown to Ostrand, sat behind newspapers headlining quickly how freak deposits of late August snow had yielded to skittish freshets of street slush where Dauphine ran the corpulent van uptown. On her third week of shifts, Sergei’s niece thought she had earned the straight and narrow for once. Turned out of her previous administrative position for heckling commodity futures with a subtractive algorithm, Dauphine found release by swearing herself wholly responsible, restituting the state to the tune of several grand, accepting, at the insistence of her uncle, sponsorship into this new post and, an hour of community service performed, the remainder suspended, Dauphine piloted the van along, halting splash in front of 1515 Camcord Way. Her uncle, appearing at the doorstop, looked at her uneasily. “Here for eleven AM pick–up requested at 1515” — her uncle waved, “are you trying to amuse me?” Dauphine, shocked and abashed by her uncle’s unaccustomed manner, persisted, “well, can’t I pick this guy up for you, wherever it is?” It was done forty–three minutes ago, she learned.

.   .   .

Formosan, and his connections, were in the unscheduled process of a TQM meltdown. author of poor haiku, as he was also known, and with what large relief, had mailed, in some terms most readily abandoned, instructions for final propositioning of assets, including some not presently his own. As he was known to repeatedly remind his flowers, Horace Tolstoy had approached this greater isle, scant minutes after, as he, a locus of precipitate departure from previously preempted existence, had amended, in entreated abruptness, formal associations. Uprooted, perennial goad to stultify the occidentals of the smaller isle’s erstwhile ruling class, Formosan succeeded, under the prehensile nose of the incoming regime, in transfusing most activities attending his intentness out of an old ring.

To any degree, a recent conservancy, halting development of the one hundred and fifty seven–acre semi–conductor plant over some of the most ancient petroglyphs of Lesser Warwickshire, cost no more than a farthing of his talent. To these unprecedented leaks in the fabric of Western culture, Horace, no less wont than other newcomers to appear its stouring, had lately cultivated a new hobby, being that of timing his own niches while left being unscotched. Wound up for its third and final spin, PoD, before becoming witness to the ordeal, and irate for uncultured deed, facing evidence of widespread concern given focus through a value immunity compromise process, its restitution of predetermined purpose reposed in resolution to bring upon an epoch of actualization.

As if, one thought, galvanized to tilt at death’s windmills, from a distance their natural mien was enough to forestall the shadow until we got here. Its charge shrieked crystal stems of delirium in sonar whoosh pie chart shards. At whiles, garbed, though of gravest infirmity, an improvident resumption of exurbian woes deafened all efforts at meaningful dialogue. Upon sum of morose questions, arduous replies redacted (upon) a stasis, fretful, trepanning ominously hors de combat, with an original composite well begun and in earnest, as trying as soon as possible to engineer all hesitance out of the system, for each order placed overhanged articles of no return; the several states, in adoptance of threshold though dour utilitarian interests, held out for the sunset rush although, with a sense of dwindled options, wed scarcely to closer preference.

Were life possible bang comma, Fernand typed, we being descriptive sorts as again in cultural diffusion might begin to believe the saw when it bit against the grain of habit. You will forgive me repeating the same thing for the same time for the same reason seven times a day for seven years while expecting a different result (that of course unexplored failsafe road, never again) and if insofar as a measure of progress you have come to a singular decision, I will stop wishing that the ink would run out allowing pause period misspelling on account, for darkness was all around. In the eventual heartland, where I might find myself, without a nose wart, an addiction, or anonymity, light would again remind one of storied fates, these imperfect sands, trickling, vitreous, the impermeable leisure of innocence recycled in custom to a constant universal period. That anodyne angle had lurked improvidently. Catching his breath, the writer noted the quarry and groped at the range. As the cool soldered anagram waffle fell into his hand, he flung it at the shadow shrieking. As it flopped languidly, becoming a sudden terrifying scuttling pseudopod, Fernand heaved the heavy Civil War volume in its path. Caught betwixt marches of Antietam, it was a fair catch for the tumbler.

.   .   .

Inky servitors had, nearly unnoticed by busy patrons, soon lit all of the sambuca glasses, and the interior was a strange lantern–blue amphitheater of will o’ wisps. “My dearest brother,” Ostrand read in shaky light, “the sword of your least latte here served to mar our troth ere proof, or ahoy, abandoned hues long ago forced us to accommodate Señor Florian, and yet how you have temerity to curse our engagement to him. He has been very kind to our true desire to leave home, so you can keep your toast on and mail yourself to the dive, ur–sister, Esmeralda.” After the paella was gone, he finished breakfast in silence but for shots, listening to talk around him. “Think of all the things we wouldn’t have without plastics.” “Randomly cognitive theories of tissue degeneration reversal.”

“Shhh. They prefer to avoid official terminology.” “Heard tell of a guy who used to do that all the time.” “That’s used to crack knuckles.” “A chef d’cabinet in Minorca threw off his head across the old ocean.” “Heard blue out the door and were stepped on like twigs under separate letter.” “Being dead is an improvement for most of us.” “Stiffs, they prefer to avoid official terminology.” As Ostrand wiped his glasses, he felt the jog of a familiar elbow. Framed against neon, Alcuin, transportation minister, stood before him. It was very dark. Light, subtracted sound, enhanced an earth captious or plaintive sent out of keeping with time, shadows trained upon opposing walls, scarcely deviant earls we, warning systems, were called upon to explain recent dissociations.

.   .   .

There, a terrible stir, this scrap brought all about, but late or forgotten. So much capital had been drawn. Having verified that finance was arrived in escrow, the Sergei Kalamparumple I knew would have, upon conclusion of the unexpected meeting with his niece, in capacity of driver for Globus Express, and the second dispatched to his doorstep that morning, surmised that aught was amiss and taken measures to amend it. This morning Sergei was, however, still somewhat to be found forty–three minutes short, even as he arose at his customary hour of seven forty five, the indication of his nightstand chronometer having been, unbeknownst to himself, thrown out of true during a brief electrical discharge that accompanied the freak September snowstorm.

As he had spent the morning pushing over things, Plair, representing previous interests, proceeded en route to the Kalamparumple address. Although his chronometer showed ten twelve, Sergei went upstairs to answer the bell. Met with his blank stare, the Globus man announced, “pick–up, eleven AM, 1515 Camcord Way,” and added, with a glance at his watch (it was actually ten fifty–six), “sorry if I’m a little too early.” Sergei, expected to point out that it’s only ten thirteen, in proof, beckoned Plair to plant himself just inside the door, backed toward a console quartz receiver and switched on the short wave. Toc. Toc. A crisp mariner’s voice, at the tone, announced seventeen hours, fifty–seven minutes coordinated universal time. At the beep, Sergei felt boorish. Begging pardon off the Globus man, he ducked into his study to retrieve a parcel addressed to the firm of Ingersoll, Blank, and Dake, 7 Holcombe Scrufflings, Yarmouth, UK. Plair accepted the parcel.

.   .   .

Seized by a fit of couthness, Fernand typed, “while waiting for time to draw nearer, I forsook trail mix. Fond itch caught verily, the astonishingly public moth drawn, as if by phrased substantiative adage, I had a horrid blemish on my nose, horrible and huge. It had bit or else distance as an ease of precipitance had dwindled indwelt. Geese, due to their variable inflection, are a real showstopper, but always remember that glacial glades gladly glamorize glandular glass glaziers.” In the midst of an alphabet one encountered halogens, consonants that bonded with almost nothing, the bluejay, persistent practitioner of the single voice, lovely Ell, who bonded with many other consonants, though never taking precedence herself, girded by imposters Kay and Em (the former was at least honest enough to declare himself a knave, whereas the latter tried to pull a fast one with his mnemonic devices), and noble N, consonant of negation, personified by an (some finth glimmered in appellant cognizance of an) Ambassador.

“To celebrate transversion of this vast wasteland,” Fernand resumed, “the King’s English embraced the Platonic phonetic prefix, but beware: it is a phalanx of phantasmagoric pharœs, pharmaceutically phased to philander a Pleistocene philosophically. Beyond value of pi, we are reborn into placid places of placebo placentas, yet plagued by plagiarism, while plainclothesmen plaint plangently to planets of plague, plasma, and plaster. The mighty peapods harbor plinths and princes, and building sticks of the universe are contained herein. We owe a debt of gratitude to prophets, may angles bless their most holy name,” Fernand added, “for the next letter, Q.E.D., allows us to define four–sided objects with unprecedented accuracy, and skip to electric air, that bonds only with the queer aitch, rhapsodic rheostats rhetorically antigenic, and the gate of Midgard arrived upon, there is no more work for us today and for your assignment wish each of you to choose a most controversial task.”

Fewer snores occluded this finish, yet as he swept his desk of context Fernand felt he could have been more adroit around his charge at so parlous en passant. “In order that I am only closest in stages sincere and anon, one self, and other jaguars might leap if the next stain thing upon fowl went ring, method, or apparent, that was miscue and given something trite, inimical declarations of tergiversatory intent from without, thereat that renunciation shall not begin as long as I exist. Almost a seal of darkness intervened to alleviate my dilemma about how much further I would have to wax parenthetical, as cascades undammed and overran the feckless page scuttling about the crust of the Village.” It had been held here, upon this page, to enact aspatial resolutions upholding a new word, or a program, or amused declared aims, provision, provable premise of exiting will, and so sang the and/if preemptive dispensary of, while only proclaiming some mien composure and of any simple calculus problem, matching wicks good or ill, cheat in the not very fickle. “After clutter, it was obvious I had listened to (only) no more than a very few of the Arabic language programs.”

The reception accorded this cit surpassed all prior constructions of conduct. Hopefully fjulsfut, if quick to bandy their stock phrases about freedom flies whose bark were worse, trying to catch them with egregiousness, and oft misled down apathy forasmuch as wily niceties of their Ambassador seemed to put their cases into a shabby light, buckled on their shelves each morning (what a farce to apply that pleasant term to darkness in which so much bumbling occurred prior to thoughts of ultimate reward lingering in haste, even preferable to those prior dark moments arrived with the short circuit crash telephone save), and blossomed from decades and/or foul angst and oppression, left most of their clothes in inter–regnum closet, swayed in oblivious purpose of their mend fledged to the deep end. Esherman spoke aloud, “and on behalf of your indignation, I must now stricken that (‘upon behalf of whom,’ Ion wailed, confused) of all means, without compensatory programme, other than a few blame–me’s shouted in the foyer as strictly kismet, is depraved. Singularly blotto. Little wonder that you’d nocturnally voice rebuttals left as is. What pests they were.”

Ion, remembering indemnification, heartily pounced over and opened that can, “or will you forgive the zealotry of new believers? Their prayers may set me up.” And formally other men, stolen with masks reverently handled, flinched daisies pressed upon call. An aspirant, plying the mask, toothily faced down the patient Ion, noticing waves of clouded heaven surging into superb vastness that physically coiled into green cilantro, who asked, “oxygen?” “Whatever flew for you,” Logan paraphrased. “If you wish, you are free to move mountains, but in the dim sum of your future outside, I must invite you to consider perorating.” Within this room, Esherman smiled, “you’ll really eke.”

.   .   .

It was nearly one minute of three when Plair, all his fiefs marked anon, ignored sequential time and gyrated off LaSalle, steering the Globus van direct to regional. Dense rabbinates would begin meta tents before Plair, whistling a tenuous moment, lifted the parcel from the passenger side and walked in over the loading dock. The dispatch printer was unattended for the moment, Plair hesitated when a batch job fell through, and a slinkily conceptual cert of stacked labels sucked themselves into production.

In an adjoining hangar, jet blast whistles alarmed the moment of departure. Plair, unnerved, broke into queue and tapped an override code. The batch aborted, given him opportunity to produce one label, for the National Healers Council, 4 Croughton on Stoke, Tyneside (5) 63, U.K. This he took, with impressant selvage, super–imposing the amending label on the parcel and resplicing the stock stack. Plair reset the flags and resumed his course of motion, having also, unobserved, allowed the bale of labels to resume its accruing ritual, and ran the parcel into the drayage freight collection wain scant seconds before the basket, conveyed with all else of its holdings, bumped alongside the derelict hatch.

If it all seemed done with method of a pre–liminal operating standard Plair, having followed his instruction to the letter, had but the wan satisfaction of seeing the Globus courier jet entrain for the concourse and for further fields aloft, before hastening to service elsewhere. Another man, a guildmaster, one day found his commencement unseated by uplines from Green sympathies, foreseeing that, over his tepid opposition, the IBV project eventually carried, the native cliff salted over to fashion a defense campaign so adroit, and yet, to his own mind, so unappetizing to all sides. Middleford would fain return to primacy only unscratched, if also free to supplement his appointment as resident occludant of the ICC with a material cue for post comptroller, an office of potential yet ludicrous lucrativitude, and the guildmaster, raiding his last capital, arranged delivery of this item direct to the receiving firm of Ingersoll, Blank, and Dake, agents of his erstwhile benefactors.

Learning of this, with large relief old Formosan broached the cask unsealing the innermost wall. Therein, long a goad, yet in every way furled, controlling activities, most secret, appended, condoned, unrivalled by happenstance, or most readily abandoned, the long repressed desert heffalump awoke in a position. Orphics, a moribund self–help empire comprised of individuals incessantly engaged with problem–solving techniques, found fresh infusion. Motivated by questions of semaphoric calling relations, in fulfillment of reward through transcendence, or many individuals dedicated to their motto, Orphics were able to corner more than only camp causes which long tugged at those learning of universal betterment. Formosan’s less tenuously underwritten enterprises found frontage herein.

The light of a promised new dawn, re–asserted with funds funneled into fights against cancer, spills, four world wars, and general despair, fitfully sputtered in the lamp of a hitherto tarnished flame, whilst Ion wasted text amiably for eons. What was committed during the rape of Gujarat by followers of the prophet and foreshadowed loss of foursquare couplets by and large; their discovery lauded in mystic fallows factually? “Aydgar e Zharan,” Ion replied more than heartily, years before this question whisked by him and whatever sly portion lapsed in odd solemn indolence. “Their examiners left education with us,” Justine, flaunting relief, struggled into a spring coat, hastening from the past in an aura of channel street flannel. “Seam squirrels.”

“Fling them about then,” Manasseh exclaimed, hearing the supervisor raise her/his voice. “We get called away for rusty seam squirrels.” Apparently a package had broken and shipped water. Manasseh risked a snicker doodle. The relief OD returned his tobacco pouch. He also ignored the badge and resumed tracking forms as Manasseh took it and split.

.   .   .

“How are you, old prop,” Porphyry exclaimed? “Turn yourself in for once,” Ostrand grumbled. “And your uncle, Matthieu?” Ostrand drank a fifth shot in reply. “I trust your work is going well, and wish to be a source of continued fortune,” Alcuin said, extracting a card from his parka. “Get bent.” The card fluttered to the floor. “I’ve been awake for two days.” “No doubt, anxious to return to Asuncion?” Ostrand stared at the upturned glass. “Your visa expired last week. Bon voyage.”

As Alcuin began to melt away, Ostrand yelped, “stay!” The transportation minister thought that spelled a milk run. “You overestimate my importance.” Ostrand squinted down at the card. Alcuin had scrawled the number of an exit off the national highway. It was almost in France. When he looked up again, the room, flooded in a greasy dawn, had emptied.

.   .   .

As said green men tweet belongings that a clear panda yet cured, dioramas then pan escorts besides.

III — xiii — Once Certain of Purpose.

.   .   .

spacemon’ (in character) had just crept on huge dressage team cart width. Their process, involving an ordinary feat of memory reflux, gnawed mightily through the static vigil, implying an end to the always optional fortnight of abstention and reason withal, yet as taxed as spacemon’ regarded their lot by unaided effort, they merely allowed text to sift their view briefly before attuning the gain into a resonant hold, allowing spacemon’ to augment a secret mimicry of bipedalien humans deemed responsible into that sending needlessly bumped.

Last form then, a way to end all ways, wiped eerily from a lens were visors so enabled a dim if summary perception of voluminousity, Charles hoisted the tiger moth ajar. This probe, of laughable (to the expedition) stock, had recently damaged a cowling. Before the tapper expunged it, the duty observer, determining the plaintive etchings were untenet, performed a contextual download which seemed of little interest to any of them. The numerous folders topping the desk had sorted an arrangement yielding specific conclusions to the feverish analysis of Dr. Logan Ferguson. Of a series of seven confidential reports, opened in hopes of arresting the curtain’s descent, the first read utmost importance, while the seventh remained unsealed and unmarked but for a summit dare.

Pan an ongoing report not yet released, as curt lantern faction mote turned to that space that could not help being liked for its apostrophic effect. Resisting lists nary without, it could (wherein sial themes averred stoically uppermost) heed ‘tis of that wealds angled for over and a day. Political debts cured, their fistulous asides tampered heedlessly forth, quite astonished as eternity and truth islets code, acting seasonably during 8/8/88, Læmært as inspectorial factotum had followed momentous events of Dauphine’s trial, burst with edicts. So cribbed from entire other solo wash worsts that, inwardly, her path was tempered in parity of universal restraint impolitic, she’d bravely confuted barristers and taken the entire fall too.

In this fun era laid best were plans of a sort that shy lemurs dug all about, phonily wielding propinquitous tares of elasticity. As even imps, elated with her refusal to depart from scratch, ran through, Læmært had missed that henna wasteland goddess ever since, at whiles, only here was love actually rad, and while jangled reams of deposit comprised a bulk without, no longer consuming him, Esherman posed, here now alone, one call alacritously; though the process dribbled, that was all right. It was much more devoted to this office than any of his peers, and had long considered its mandate to re–establish ancient traditions of fact.

From this, he’d hoped to win her informal confluence, and had sworn, though echoes duly bent to find out what was on, when she’d accepted employment in the colonies, where legions stood poised to smite her maladjusted zealotry, he feared, or wasn’t aware of any compromise with a shadow puppet, reputed as charging that none of them would be sufficed too live? In moments now, Læmært could read that much verbiage as merely biodegradable product from an austere desert sect, maddened with sand, but then like sick travail his heritage sloshed back, red in tooth and claw, they must all be plucked out like dream teeth and flung afar. And why not, they all seemed bent on self–dissolution anyway, his great love had flown from him like a moth hadn’t she?

Only here, thrippence, in the crèche of a great cusp, was Læmært inclined to consider events rationally. Were this sickness, then sobeit. The decision claimed behind agave theme other thin aims of value–mad reason, events, however he shed light, evolve so a non–melee. Esherman had to know how Dauphine’s sponsor, Sergei, had trafficked in Ossianian artifacts. Already the curator Idres had released a strange summary disclosure of method involvement, an unswerving dedication to reconstruction of their cultural heritage. Thus resolved, Læmært would find and in due course devise means of releasing news of Sergei’s complicity to a world as panicked and surfeit with all get–out, and her sponsor thus discredited, Dauphine must float back across the pond to his own wasting mind.

Unless this happened the strain would revert, its brief pinnacles forgotten in seconds, framed into a billion oppressive mites bent upon declaiming to others their needs. Mighty friend, the partial swash. Like a cup of coffee on the edge of the table that no one troubled to move, he was afraid one day of never being able to phase the ejection, and already, like Aira, he fell, lobbed, caught up and out and glimpsed terrestrial expanses of dusty cravat winkling then into Esherman footing a risen ford. Logan opened the second envelope, for the IMF had leaned on Soundman. Lacking immediate gem distribution facilities, and starved for by nix baity valet, thus origin cue more finth (that to pendant chef d’cabinet, involving loss of one of their best mutant voles, read Phyrric), those expedited had Ion slap into a session of premonitory diligence.

.   .   .

Nesbit’s daze legibly beheld vast conical luminaries transpired from the coracle and suspended from far beyond, nestling under the most wracked and storm–lashed ranges to the tune of a barbed severance. The few with any inclination to review feeble fields of overtones hovering stubbornly to starboard were able to only indulge in sordidly adapting to the idiom. The third, entitled Global Village, contained a list of auctionable items, personally prepared by Chad as late secretary to the CIC. Coming from it, the historian (all too busy), claimed the entire effort was fruitless due to a peculiar tropic interference, and resumed her thesis of infinite refraction. A list of educational organizations comprised the fourth. An entire hitherto discredited school ilk now flourished, in benign neglect, capable of some general knowledge about humans and their customs.

Dactylogically, the plunge negated an epitome of distances which made all else minimal and exile, less creditable, were any casual servile to protest in din of seasonally sufficient guarantees foreknown, than exactly as scheduled, scrapmon’, a leading adherent, after walking out onto the exterior sensor array, succeeded in twisting it until the gain eked fitfully, tuning their regard until spacemon’, and others with them, began to imagine themselves as within, if not already amidst, the alien culture.

The fifth, a non–sealed Interpol intercept from ICC. Had Bitsy again stipulated, amidst equally prescient concerns weakly sent, only mail toward his own auto reply system, with what naive hindsight an impervious crew might dissuade, from dint of sheer exception, any rue that shall accrue from demise of the tremendous publicist. The sixth, containing lists of transactions in the antique futures market, tabbed with the acronymic IBV. Returning to the first folder, Logan ponderously emphasized its importance. The Ruthenian consulate had wired the ICA seeking extradition for a citizen, Uclosco, implicated in death of the Ossianian minister. The dated folder contained a photograph of a woman and a faded clipping indicated she sought her natural birth parent. The liaison of the CIC had posted the request, inasmuch as the named progenitor, Kalamparumple, key member of the Founder’s League, might wish this information protected. However, the clipping seemed appended by someone who had ignored usual protocols.

At once thereat, queued in Arabica, knowledge of Charles’ often being there then pleased to discuss the tropics with one actually therein, garnered access to an ill–used trunk that brought him promptly within hierologic warrant, a stay sorry so sorely unnecessary to the recipient upon answering, who exclaimed, “thou post–script mountebank, who moved immediately to listen to the clarion mawkishly?” “Would you,” Sergei gulped in return, “for all sake abandon commerce to risk finding them?”

.   .   .

From that sequence of very little light, ahriman obtained information to an obversible at risk of pesky franchise offers recreated. Gravely weakened by blast and the death of his first host, PoD had one jump left. It had to be a good one. Suddenly he recalled the boarding pass left in the seat next to him and clawed at it, sniffing DNA, and spun across the dial until he was back on Institute broadband.

Although finth looked perplexed as their schematics prated the alien tongue without success, Fernand preferred tutoring ninth in their English as second language distance learning class. He was locked in a room without walls and made to erase sentences. “There are objects,” he explained to them. “They are words denoted that on or toward which the action of a verb is directed; also a word or group of noun or noun equivalents in a prepositional phrase. How they begin: with words (nouns), with consonants (pronunciation), with articles, verbs, prepositions, or with very able variables, unknown, charted against an overwhelming adjective description, and/or with prepositions, verbs, or articles, are how sentences can end. Now repeat aft terminally,” Fernand announced, “in Hartford, Hertford, and Hampshire, hurricanes hardly happen.” The fints assayed this topic.

“Herb had aha hag haiku Hal ham Hanoi happier has hat aa wax way Hz.” The variations seemed countless. “They all had pushed four days there left on ice.” “If fiat fib id fig fi if fill fi fin first if fits IV fix fi fizz.” To finth, the code appeared disjointed and moreover fringed upon threshold of an entropy they had just escaped. Since speech tainted outer contact with ere enough calm, they cheered mankind’s essential alphabetical development of, subject to original longhand, starstruck relationships toward autonomic or visceral writing, a practice decried among many (a bleached misspell originally intended as faith) lest original meaning typecast (souls selected by inter–regnum to perpetuate their strain) upon any of the arriving participle found fluid rite. With chance began then them eager to race for abundance in a Boolean bounce oeuvre per se constant. A point yet gained to Ion with the air of immisciblity; obtained cognizance of little actually that was quiet let me finish ingested as dark material debut, the rank mime etude business ellipsis from me intuited no cause that was quite from their top shelf. Eventually preliterate Fourierists primarily sibilant somatized scrapmon’ read, only if near of need interested cerulean shown gamboling, endured commencement disabused of any idea of surrogacy, and found earnest naps only plaid with ajar heights; tarns which wept foul trouble to the gulled valid guild, that disavowed any corporate inkling of complicity, despite numerous ceramic expertise branched into pharmaceuticals seen as requisite to Ahem’s stealthy demise. It was just as nearly a dud, the coroner alluding that blast went off weakly, and with hardly ample force to vaporize casing deemed a non–cause, scrapmon’, all bells rheostating, Ahem in hackneyed mufti, had a groat with either eye astrew.

“Perhaps he was not getting around enough anymore as irascible as likely finding her dopey walk double talk et cetera from avuncular habit.” “Fi fib if id fi fig if fi if fin fi if fir IRS fit fi IV if fix iffy if.” Sophistry led some of the principles into real dubious interpretations of sentiment. Only two other idioms were conveying an essential ere: that an odd entirety hence comprised from the least, viz., geriatricide perpetrated under aegis of the uchaux both before, during, and after time stops, a sophisticated process of convincing subjects to go west in order to create a purifiable soul, freed from all conceits, for an inter–regnum facility hidden in the thirteenth century; aged parent traps and sport direct tour aloe its proof that ethos else teases who flour ii am not small smack smell see smell meg smell semi smell men smell Sep smell mere met smells met smell smelly magpie cage.

Casting his towel into the Rubicon, Finthector signed for an immediate cessation, but like your nearsighted flutist who always drew ire of the ninth great band teacher, one more question leaked into ether and forced everyone to justify their own existence. “Am I BA babe BC bad be barf bag bah baize bag bake ball is ban boa bad bar bas bat baud ax bay bazaar?” Weary of being tagged to rescue oversized bagels from toasters, scrapmon’ vastened into the case of the Ossianian investiture minister.

“Aloe unkempt, how the finesse ha’en thee sooth, coordinated Erictho, created a fuss a–wreath, a tux in eistedfodd amino, intuited several inns there, all for ultimate trendy suet. So one, i.e., had an ergot, mixed,” scrapmon’, who on the flip side, said with enough perforce demurrals toward degrees conferred in recess, and being among the first to steady the archetypal response of being not carefully enough within the holy guitar regard, love, an immoderate censure of momentary totality at a certain staid hat person, involved to a degree with similar caprice on pruning offsets, “is thus a suggestive mynah sign, whoops, I chiel in spicier dives foment, mute delight here, the barren raptor poets forth at a schoolish pace.” Fernand enjoyed however tutoring finth in ESL classes offered at the Institute, in return for what favor omnibus did fugitives bestow upon samplers.

Even as exigency forced him to remember skills of a forgotten era, when this carbuncle had shown him the quickest method of forgetting daily, peeling away pesky encyclicals to leave only usable essence, such loss leaders as they had transmogrified even the propriety for cornet markers who were lately so apt to return their changed shingled lane. A thread of peculiar interest centered on movements of the International Brotherhood of Valets (IBV), an organization that included, among many talents, a devotion or principle for dissolution of inter-personal corporations.

Another trail focused on claims of the splinter group, Orphics, whom Ferguson formally embraced as heretics to his own cause, because their baffling insistence upon immediate transmigration of body and soul upon death, despite infringing his sense of doctrinal propriety, had time after time somehow happened, yielding transmigrationism much credence in the world press. Forasmuch as this occupation alarmed steadier opinion, however, the new ilk were well along toward captivation of the entire expedition, at the expense however of ignoring, if not outrightly disdaining, their traditional support network, represented in the unwelcome message now unfolding.

.   .   .

12/20/2012, 11:51 PM. Greetings too hollow recalcitrant fifth: Hey. Much as we are aggrieved that in haste thou hold thy harness intransigently, your achievements gratify the counsels of our wisdom. Terran conceptions of genomonous predicative aside, the identification of oryza sativa as among this planet’s superior beings has gone far to eliminate any other avenue of extraneous diligence. You must have been very bored to employ your talent to this topic. Nevertheless, inter–regnum salute (please consider applying field elevation to the recovery site as a valuably additional tool). Slipped, Ambassador, an, An Indocile, Grand High Ambassador. P.S. Loved by the people, Ahem would have stopped on a dime to pick up gum. We already established the Ossianian Consulate, though steeped in traditions of slouching, was a mere tabula rasa from which he, grungiest of those, arisen following a career of meteorological ascendance.

In tradition of First Sea Lord, Ahem stalled the consulate in a stenciled lapel, reading send more mere work, in part fully coercing blase ephemeral cyber pacifism, bent from far–along reaches of corridors, where, intent upon restoring tiers of grandeur by capable cheer, their vim bid more entrancing, may naive countrymen point to creation Lothar disconnected, declining to visitors, when Ahem announced, moreover, the decision to waive his lists personally, that several shorts ran amok indeed. Then, Ahem was unable to exert an immediate influence upon the investigation of his own death, although non–corporeal themes persisted in the last retort. Concern fell upon cadets of Midlothian causality.

Any observer of aplomb, of craft inscrutable, placidly disrupting matriculations, might devolve upon questions of recent codicil and hie the brevets towards a fiacre of diligence. Ordinarily this one wish to appoint a sponsor charged with delaying rightful ken, though preliminarily, hence troubled principals, in receipt of word that plenum, reinforced with blast baffling tungsten dowels, betrayed an extraordinary degree of training, sent fittest witnesses into the Hebrides for advanced cold weather planning. They themselves convened proactively for a season of barnstorming. While technically chair of the event, the factotum sat sleepily as they trundled a lease lintel onto the place. His premise of speech, an odd constant concertina murmur punctuated by explosive dichotomies, had numbed his colleagues into nerveless sentience. How nice to live in a mythical country where no one spoke out of turn.

Rex Ampersand began, did he have any fosses? The insurance commissar, his complexion a placid puce, remained silent, while others glanced anxiously at Ingersoll, prefect of Lyonesse, a foil for flak so often that he seemed to be next heir apparent, tentatively gave to his detractors the big fake smile. It was early enough today for them to consider speech a liability, hence some inaugural statements passed in a miasmic tosh. The arrival of tea gave a chance to ponder Rex’s elementary belief. That Ahem’s tenure at the embassy was drear exile. Yet with such brilliant fervor had Ahem approached his diplomatic tasks that plebes who’d hoped that he might slip up out there were in dread chagrin; moreover, entire classes now bore his stamp and upheld him out as their only champion in such wise that all about them, the entire yard might be said to have loved Ahem.

Only those principles, in due course, who harbored any real possibility of hearing him were present in this very room. “The unspeakable diphthong,” Fernand attempted to instill in his students, “is gateway to the other reality, but today we’re studying consonance. Let’s start with blahs, a noisy family of contrasts, of black blades blaming bland blarneys for blase blazers. Next are zebras, they are brackish bradykinin of braggadocio, who brandish brassy brats bravely braying. After spending twelve years studying the history of self–cancelling klatches, and compiling documentation of forty–three separate events, Ferguson thought that he finally had an explanation.” Since 1815, several events had occurred in circumstance that seemed to bear out claims of transmigrationism. They had left diverse locations without leaving a trace.

If Dr. Ferguson had but shreds of supposition to link the IBV to these occasions, the opportunity of present events re–asserted, words beginning with ch–, collectively termed chi [sic], were sacred emblems of ancient power, of chains, chairs, chances, charity chests, chias purchased at the last instant before Christmas, choices, and chiaroscuro choruses, yet took care, for this realm is guarded by chaff, charlatans, cheapskates, and churls. There are clabber words clad with clammy clans who clap clarinets after class claustrophobically. The factotum misheard, and lacking an erasure, the hapless scribe rubbed his knuckles against the indelible surface and rephrased, the tea distributors exeunted, and a listless point, the comptrometer promised, arrived in their careers.

It was listless to even contemplate mulcting questions at everyone; the joy once inherent in ferreting truths from the midden of human knowledge had palled so long ago, even after replies began boiling in. We may skip over the draws, a cosmos of ritual intake, of drags, dregs, drinks, and drugs. “Moving on, ineffably flabby flaccid flagellants flail flamboyant flamingo flashbacks,” Fernand mentioned, adding that frabjously fractious frail fragrances framed frankfurters frantically.

.   .   .

With fleeting evidence that the IBV intended to perform another vanishing act, in conjunction with recent telephone conversations that had almost shattered his nerve, sallowly, impertinent but here, and Brussels figuring prominently, Logan sprinted to the marble kiosk and wryly dialed his travel agency. A seat on the midnight Concorde to Iberia gathered assistance carefully. All had medicinal expertise to apply to the problem. Manasseh, the Rabbi Esherman, retired sixth fleet surgeon, answered his telephone tonight. “How round are you now these days,” Logan gasped ten years after? Had one realized that there was more to one’s own life yet was too far gone in twisted and subtle logic to reclaim a thing? Adjustor Blank ventured, “at what moment did the expulsion occur?”

With impending details, hopeful that eagerness concealed inner torment, Noone had failed to notice the insurance commissar’s penchants flagging. “Gentlemen,” the commissar Ingersoll began, “let us ditch the primer for a second and spontaneously comb the air for adjectives. None of us, nay not one of us are here to praise cææsær. Indeed we loathed and despised the fancy boy, always pressing a new uniform code here, a new surveillance there, ere now had we longed for the coup laying him to rest.” The Rabbi Esherman trilled lowly earfuls at audible nightfall, slowing serviceable putts upon the wasp. “We loathe all that’s fine ridden,” Logan said, “but you had better than ongoing too many little noises in front.”

Rex mused, “in fact the motive, though unclear, concerns us not at all.” Blank asserted, “it was obviously work of a premier formal.” Actuary Dake vouched, “he was a theorist.” Rex continued, “how ironic, we might say, that they have struck down their only friend.” “And we will attest to that,” the insurance commissar asserted, “the stank of asphodel shall adorn his shrewd byre, extol his qualities, and leave no room for doubt in persistent, thaumaturgent reason, able men, or obscurantist reactionaries.”

“Up close it will,” Esherman conceded, adding, with what all else minded, “beyond sending other boats, until avenged upbeats, enough to walk out with forklifts, shan’t wave one bean?” Change is the only constant […] look at the sleepy factotum who waited for storms of topaz benediction […] meanwhile, the facts of the case […] with him one could never tell where the ellipsis looked off over blankly. If startled, the insurance commissar stirred restlessly as his factotum continued […] we have too many babes out there […] agreed, the insurance commissar chimed in, we need someone to spit up on them.

“The pinwheels are already out there chewing on public affairs,” said the comptrometer. “Detox cables, fathomed here without commission in the last place densely splotched,” Ferguson explained, unraveled momentarily. “They’ll toast any of us,” Rex agreed. “Wait for a second, who’ll doubtless slip up, whatever you want to say.” “Gentlemen, none of us are fit to continue at present our office, much less conduct an investigation with that sort of viz.” “We need someone who can stand on the public eye,” Blank added. “Someone who is not unimpeachable,” Dake chimed in.

“Only isn’t known yet,” Esherman surmised? “Ampersand, Læmært’ll have op-eds folding on this sort of thing yesterday.” Before they rang off, Logan asked Esherman to locate Thledvirrson, master diver instructor. The latter said that she was not returning messages nowadays, yet they might color Ion as already there.

.   .   .

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 blockade, 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.

.   .   .

Obscurity pans Frank’s verse for solid candlelight onto a sad moody shore.

III — xi — What May Move Programs Along.

.   .   .

Four ammeters across the dial, equidistant, and nearly ex–person, Francis X. Middleford, finding his duties as guildmaster of National Wiccan’s Council almost functionless, was being tweaked into by PoD. His first board meeting and its impact upon future events related to roads, tours, even an amusement park, all of which were developments they were incapable of crackling. Someone suggested bags and their fetch upon market perception, or a street sweep, a fashion piece void of glam.

Amidst a dry fine gossamer texture on glass furnace, a date for the fire sale loomed noisily upon their agenda, overshadowing an interactive small weird word smell in the hall of what. “As long as it’s less than one syllable,” Frank conceded, as they stopped to watch Norns feeding the adherency, a deep chastening for one action, and twinkling, “an experience of discomfort may turn vividly sad,” one warned, for we knew even before they as children awakened, painfully fond of declaiming civic involvement, disdained melodies and elapsed features in an unkind drawing room referenced an original name. Anyone might not have the slightest inkling of an essential element, involved as a chance whereby the folded warp let out of the starry cloak, that from the essence of natural process preceding heliocentricists, who laid plans occurring in the wake of dust mice mislaid in a conduit of all light, had confronted possession as in contention for an asterisk.

Additionally, from PoD’s point of view, loads of bus charge were leaping from an earlier band, prior, a dam recollecting bothersome weir debris of the tides of centuries. Led onto stop during ad valorem series of mystical ululations, evolving emergent principals mistook an impulse of thought for an animated occupation. Left alone, Horace Tolstoy took rueful stock, in that at least he’d parlayed the evening into fresh opportunity, and fished into his jacket for the fortune cookie, snatched from the server’s tray prior to leaving the restaurant, but the fob, wherein were inscribed master launch codes of Pyrogabion, was missing. A hasty search of the gazebo, in hopes of finding confectionery remnants crunched about during recent struggles, was futile. Darn, that cub had probably filched it, and Horace smiled bitterly at his foe’s untoward resilience.

That it would soon find its way to the desk of homeland security, he had no doubt although, checking into his four star that evening, he drifted off in consolation that his possession of codes would most likely be attributed to his participation in the R&D process, and inasmuch as parallel efforts were designed to occur in strict compartmentalization, that would be a thing for the embassy to tap dance around. They owed him one, he dreamed, or did they? He sat upright suddenly, recalling his lapse at the turn of the century when, in his post as libator, he’d failed to toss the symbolic drink into the face of the mainland envoy, creating vast gulfs between his two adopted countries that his political rival, that waffling Whig, Middleford, had not overlooked for political capital. As he fumbled with his jacket, he was aware that his favorite mah–jonng tile, which he had used at Reykjavik in 1992, was also gone. So many things were askew that Horace immediately dialed for take–out.

.   .   .

After a free Bunsen of scraggled alms on crusty Styrofoam™, Grendelle felt he deserved faster or quirkier shish kebab. His garish pirouette underscored each messy nuisance, and he dared not ask tea leaves for fewer severe mea culpas. Amid his emotive truffles, he telephoned, on the Sabbath, adamant visions of solid thermite, to babble about sentient behemoths ignorant of, or at least inattentive to, synthesis, “if I retrace via Ohno’s, and then, a thrown velvet monotone clockwork, into the future tutu, it shall sponsor remedial bandwidth gnosis.” A really twilight bittern gulped volumes of tumultuous ringworms. Niobe drew level with intaglios of anthropomorphic hedonistic tortoises, couchant in chrome fleur–de–lis. A megalith of total dendritic wingspan rang wavy bloom tunes at will and upstairs, a dingy screed annulled certain auctions after shaggy limestone sunburst hieromaths derided sesame paths overgrown in the outback.

In an abnormal camisole, Mrs. Teaspoon liked the freedom of rich orisons that, droning in acerbic desultory tsouris of a nearly coronal amaracus, tinged the novitiates in a grey mackerel hominy swoon. The heavy mead, designed to incite ephemeral saffron folderol ellipses from great heights, shaped voracious will–o’–the–wisps which emerged, radiating fluorescent tae kwon do tremolos. With flimsy enough wherewithal, they vented chiaroscuro curios from the fallen hall. A haven of frisky REM fits hopped away, fond of eagerly ingesting somber beets. Instantly a mad sticky froth simmered, amid motley shrouds of incandescent censers, each mingling visions in vacant hardscrabble. To twirl around anymore, Bitsy watched irritably as the E–string snagged on ragtime at the bottle return, and sunlight crept across the carpet as stealthily a harvest of quarter notes hopped across shag pile like spring peepers on a work release.

The last thin streak of trail mix tincture, crushed almonds that she had hoarded for almost forty days, waved a la carte [sic] and for one instant, she seemed way out on top of a star. Then, a vast ethereal slice of understandable preoccupation with material renewal ensued, and some tinkly wind chimes blew off key outdoors. Across the basement a droplet, collected from the subterranean municipal water system, formed on the nozzle of the utility sink. As Bitsy stared, it grew in multi–prismatic dementia, a twinkling samba over rainwear, coalesced into an eternity cocoon of wakefulness, drooped, tipping into a violent bingo moth with tourniquet eyes, and flew across a dark expanse, with a splat.

Into the palm of her upraised hand, she gazed incredulously as M. Flambeaux conducted vespers in a pre–occupied mindset after last week’s indigo night. Not only had the house been waltzed away with by one Mrs. Teaspoon, but the dan had turned down his request to purchase an authentic bronze Orthodox bell he had seen online. Listening to their tinny clapper summon the faithful, Flambeaux recalled the early days of seminary on a bucolic shore. Review of a premise sufficient for several of the bipedalien country songs seemed to satisfy cruelty of an age given over to division of parcels into immeasurably meager portions. They knew where they had gone wrong, as an interest, and the divorce of they and their kin from inter–regnum was seen, by themselves, as the swiftest and only remedy to dwindling of the dreadful happiness.

Shrewdly were they, an alembic colony owing but grudging fealty to the motherland, prepared to consider any degree of cardinal error if it would assure national survival. Duties of spacemon’ this morning (for they measured their time in spans constructed around ritual intake of that trail mix which made them centered), on periodic multi–cellular diagnostic of pestling devices, were permitting the meg to survive the process intact in nearly a thousandth off; an angle, approaching spacemon’, bleeped them with loud voices, forgetting the latter had authority to hurl into the bowels of the crackling pants. This, spacemon’ promptly accomplished, instructing the malefactor not to emerge unless all went right. Freed, then from their supplementary task, spacemon’ savored a strange and foreign season, until we’ve finth [sic] (an hue from the duty observer) flinched them. spacemon’ slithered out from reverie and enrolled in a community assistance program; an indication of the oblivion attached by the aging heliocentrist to his own fate materialized with crackling stucco retorts of an immense release.

.   .   .

A native covey of nestling squab, effectively startled, took to the winged sultry sky while Fernand shortly registered the indifference of those around him. Damoclean series of frigid stalactites shifted, detaching themselves sequentially from their lofty chamber. With naught for a fortnight but two spring rolls and a bowl of cinnamon stew, Iphgene made up a furlong’s intervening distance in admirable and expedient fashion. The wan smile upon the face of the aging scientist was replaced with a look of annoyance as ædith, displaced by the execution of open, flying field tackle, stumbled into the sycophantic grasp of ogling fellows whom, assembled at the last moment for congratulations from his narrow brush, spared thought nor outcry for his savior who, crumpled beneath an acre of cold–kissed residue, stirred latte during benediction. Flambeaux reflected on his last scene in Ossian, where transubstantiation was taken seriously, the prelude to mass punctuated by everyone snapping their bravissimo dishrags and not neglecting to fling around in remedial spats and puce singlet frocks.

Nevertheless, as said to apostle Peter, feed my sheep. Somnolently, the congregation preferred to the hymnal and belted on our way over there (Charles Nesbit tried to stay awake, wondering why life was clinging to the novel, per se, during business hours. Tomorrow night a fluffy dove financier was arrived into town to appraise his exercise wheelies. Sometimes Marxism was adaptable with lowlier mollusk colonies. Noone was adept as Justine in didacticizing video lotteries. As far as everyone was concerned, an intermittent weird smell in the delicatessen continuously shorted out. “We come from all walks of life,” the aliens explained, “to guide a subset of emerging values.” Periods ago, inextirpable penstemons installed by the Niceans to enable Earth to survive incredible pressure harmonics of its newfound geocentricity imbued a strange opticity to the atmosphere, and inhabitants awoke to the awesome spectacle of seeing the other side of the world Mercatorially reflected in the skies above.

Citizens of Patagonia and Kamchatka were able to wave to one another across this convex powdery haze, and the disorienting sensation, once acclimated, seemed to obviate obscuring piezo–electric telemetry imposed by the frumious bandersnatch. “You know you have an eye fetish,” Grendelle said weakly to maroon (all too busy); rejoined, for finally it blurted, “‘you can sit over there if you want.’ Let us pause to examine this offer of those who are so smitten that they can display no real concern for the other person. What in effect they are saying is you can sit over here if you want, but it doesn’t care either way (they are denying their feelings), and so of course this overture is a complete insult, offered by those who have abandoned all hope, and yet, to its ultimate consternation, she did exactly that.” scrapmon’ commiserated, “in my own adventure, with the goddess of Althea’s newt, a person, meant to illustrate the total incapacity of inner thought, strained the capacity of daily speech in the gallery. Most signals Core was up to this minute concentrically shedding until it walked in with Justine.

“‘Goddess of Althea’s newt,’” I exclaimed, “the apocalyptic nature of our discussion emoted expressions of entire sentences for the first time this year, and bored with ideas that, ‘pending further iterations, His world was soon to end, we invited everyone.’ We scooted about the fields looking for guests. Anyone who wished to attend would serve. Light was our burden.” Hair splitting nail biters, nurtured in our wake, visited each new guest with guilt for not immediately attaining samadhi. “The last were first. Deus vult. Settling into mansions, the faithful ride out cataclysm.” It explained an astonishing lack of causality occurring upon December 21, 2012, when Earth stopped rotating, for nearly everyone had in some way expressed what their wishful memory labeled spiritually escaping the draught reserved for those reliant upon empirical sense.

Still mankind was not immediately brought to an awareness of humanity, and a war on terror still went on. As you know, jihad captured the Polar Star orbital platform and held this over the heads of the terrified populaces, pointing out that continued accuracy of the lunar calendar, Cynthia alone keeping faith amidst redistribution of celestial objects, attested to victory of this slam, and invites in all peoples to celebrate being the best of muons if indeed, the captive dream restaurant muse sped willingly, party for abrupt jolts renamed in biathanatos folklore guides they begat. Most have a trot story bet, yet their hold irked ahriman [sic] whom, never forgotten that his native Gujarat was pillaged by the Caliphate a thousand years before, presently saw that leadership of Global Village, once in his grasp, would harness powers necessary to evict jihad from its ascendancy).

As steams of land grant anthropologists descended, the engineering department drained brake fluid from the university plant and shoveled chipped ice toward Margaret, for a Falernian version of Pascal’s wager, the assembled congregation awake to a voice wining, “I’m new in town and can’t take it anymore,” Bitsy, her lost Raoul irretrievable, despising national cameras kowtowed slavishly to writhing visitors, recording every primp and tic as their triangle section stamped in ecstasy and despair. Never mind that, as twilight deepened, hopes of the young coeropheri turned vinegary Schadenfreude [sic]. At that moment, the love feast fell apart. Now, nothing had ever just happened, all scoring aside, and an unwarranted federal intrusion upon the rights of her tiny town, their side tan, deck racing precocious, shelf sly banjo desk, sent atrophy to visitors with the relish of one squirming upon constituencies ever resigned to each cost of pitiless fiction vanilla aim.

The nation, a conscious gelato, the season level flap art, resisted that hand–out, curdling into desperado, a storm of defiant individual merriment turned to separation, loss, and business as usual. Vaguely relieved if China, Japan, and Korea, glowering antediluveanly, remained in their customary positions, Sasha noticed that some counties had dropped from the sky. Everything south of an equator merged in a super–Pangean land mass. The green Norn blew some spit from her trumpet. Van Etnabaron, prior to crossing the international date line, noticed England was the same colour as North America, finished reading, “ — Kingdom of Free States.” The Norn played the opening salute to the Fanfare of Copland.

Asters trekked across their page, Raoul’s coarse unity a ham, ding dog, obsessed with appearance, its feast clay, dwelling on the known one put forth. In braided loyal sonar again, Bitsy, concerned lest fey; gone surfing and patient sorts, these young coeropheri whom at this moment decide to risk plunge into medicine, would not rest until one of their number had turned the world right side up, would not sleep until one of them had become resident, until the lavish public focus sidled up to them, until they had sold their nation back to the natives and returned residue to the metonymic auspices of the crown. Then they would see that Sasha’s glance stole to upthrust massifs of central Asia.

While the Norn played, her gown turned an amorphous grey, marked with strange little beasts. Harold spoke, “what happened while I was?” “Here be dragons,” Sergei explained. “12333 has been repealed,” announced Norn. “Congratulations,” said the resident. You have been just chosen for the cutting edge of national policy. I must pin it on.” Logan, remaining at the line, lingered over recipes. “Something happened behind me, the intercom coughed perhaps, and she turned. “Have you ever been,” Grendelle whispered, for waters without darkened in a turbulence hinting that great seal was yet nigh, “at the edge of the littoral before dawn, when there is no light, there is no horizon, there is only sounds of wind rushing, that was all you heard, yet in your dreams you saw from ever afar that blue smoldering light of peat fire that were her eyes?” When the journalist sighed, “interrupting to inform you the programmers, making suitable allowance for offense, had issued blanket denials of all request for decency,” maroon (all too busy), its noses shaken at Grendelle’s pace, added, “well, if it was not exactly like that, perchance it was more, for slight macros their warp of what time suet askew.” A correspondence course appealed to those imbued with agenda comparison values.

“We often could not see it,” injected the Ambassador. “It might have been too fast for individual conception. But if we returned home, we were going to have so much fun that no one would ever want to talk to us again. Unfortunately, they that called themselves pups decided to fix things.” In a single minute, the sixth race (third, and last, of colloidal races), the bobbins, dreadfully beautiful, sprang; from the weary noses of their parent, all too busy Nornseeker, “we were not only an attempt of inter–regnum to overcome its embarrassment over the misshapen fjulsfut flop by whatever thrashing, and to think that it was only Tuesday.” The beneficent loam attracted the sixth, and newest race, unsure yet whole beings. Lured by Hephestaus, patron saint of fifth, bobbins peered upon the indigo sphere at the bottom of the well of time. They declared the contents a scarce resource and remained, for many epochs, earth–bound as deities until cast forth by the earliest apostles. The fjulsfut had their revenge. At terrible cost. Confined by edict, their creativity bent to the oppressive will of inter–regnum, tictii began to die in languishment. Their place, amidst inexorable climacteric, were seized by ninth, the fitless, dreaded, counterfeit finth, and an eighth, hitherto, nameless, strain.”

.   .   .

Visible underground.

.   .   .

Hyperborean icicles of the Institute, suspended from the eaves, sharpened by alternating thaw and freeze, and posed over seminarians hastening toward whatever noontide comfort might be found within walking distance, were of late unsettling to those below them; given time, measured by accretion of ice pellets upon the dreary ground, celebrated only by dormant works of the Nicean clock, a gift from Tsar Peter to the state of France, has also ground to a halt during the helixicist revolt of 1825, at elven newt height (anyone should still confide few themes gone third digital). Those seeking the knowledge of letters had to rely on their own ego–stationary orbit measuring devices.

Fernand made it his business to observe calculations of the fabled ædith, inventor of the microcosm, which specified a working synthesis of photometric impacts upon the intensity of international anomie: “today I dealt with a perplexing moral dilly. A convenient trouble lapel ballast, failing duets then doffed each month, promised another unstable dent in my sidewalk. Sorely tested to use an extra–terrestrial vertigo chalk instead, was my philosophy, that it’s best to keep stash in hand and manageable debt or else your entire ceiling will go into the dumpster. The requirement to lay off a huge ballast at once, as our stupid trouble lapel demands, simply snores against the grain of everything I hold dear.

“However, my nose for travel told me synergy would be happy using myopic advances for something other than laying off their precious lapel. I was also talked out of using a vertical chokehold to cover part of the ballast, and wrote with chalk for the entire amount, denting my sidewalk by about twenty percent. Trying to console myself that I did the right thing and avoided bad karma, I will ask at our next assembly of the Trombone Society if we can use ornamental chalks depending on general mood, which is having a unique lump finance assessment from FNMA this weekend.” Speaking of frustration with balances, hard–boiled sentiment, abject gratitude, spacemon’ (on my word a character) were kept apart by nothing, save fear that wrought a surer answer to spiritual cleansing. Logan replaced the receiver but was rattled instantly with fresh rings.

“At once I am here,” Horace leered to enunciate a lasting version of conceit, “and lamentably though you would not accept a simple errand” — “who else is as committed to that,” Talitha began; but then the least of his desires, “commendably thy concert will bring anew the light of hot stuff and seeing to that whim, forasmuch as this blights our consortium, I am not of a mind to prevent tasteless events.” Tolstoy paused, getting this out was not simple as he’d raced head first into it without recourse to things having left out there in murky encumbrance. Thledvirrson drearily stared, astonished that a man of this temper had slathered himself in chains prior to this interview. Circuitously she had fallen silent with the air of one braced for a row if at not least. Would Talitha explain again her hope for his vision?

Were that to come, he might renounce gain at once to place his freedom on jeopardy, in order to draw attention to that recent lair. “I am surprised you have not put more distance, I would think,” she said, given unnatural denouement. “There is Core,” author of poor haiku replied, “some sixth who did not brook any disengagement throughout while I priced myself off, never letting go. I must reel in worsted against ubiquitous twilight before turning into a cipher of this story.” Without most novel mystique, had Menard’s grand–daughter o’erstretched her hand?

“Shell,” Jasmine said with no attempt at inflection. Talitha received this aspersion tartly, and assumed that she had called to help Tolstoy bewail his fates. The least he could have done was to explain to the heavens how fortunate he was that she answered her telephone periodically. Thledvirrson replied hastily, “how are you,” leaving Jasmine with the perception that she was gilding a sow’s ear. Horace inferred Talitha had not returned Jasmine’s greeting in the spirit intended, instead proceeding directly to rule as diagnostician, and thus broken, he cast pet phrases all into rote previous associations and said nothing.

Talitha, noticing that instead of redefining issues, author of poor haiku had fallen into egotistical patterns, thinking that it was all about him, therefore wearily sighed, “what is the matter now?” “Nothing worth getting into, babe,” he replied, incensed that she had chosen to humour his laconic aphorisms with such visible lack of zest as she repeated what unimaginatively. “Do you like peppermint ice scream,” Horace interjected to Jasmine, feeling fleeting pressure she’d sidetracked tepid inquisition? “Not really,” she replied. “You’ve been cool of late, haven’t you,” Horace resumed to Thledvirrson, ever hopeful that once she’d skimmed through the moldering soil fire forever raging upon the surface of his consciousness, she would be on–board. “What do you mean,” Talitha, her persistent obscurantism alerting him to the notion that she just couldn’t wait to get away from the telephone, asked (she has been working seven weeks an hour for the last sixty months, does he know what she’s saying)?

“If you are saying just anything to get us off track,” Talitha snapped, “louse, lighten up.” author of poor haiku countered, “you all romp out of the window without a moment’s notice and then blame us for not running downstairs in time to catch you.” “What is your point,” Thledvirrson asked? “This generation seeks a sign,” Horace announced. Jasmine, inferring most of the parenthetical allusions, jumped on this cue and said, “if you will only sign here.” Horace snatched the happy lizard from Jasmine’s hand and it was time for her to leave. “Call me when you get there,” he said as Jasmine exited. Darn, she had been so close to reaching the cold clear waters of his inner psyche yet, again, had fled. As if she preferred navigating moldering soil conservation districts and was frightened by his depths. It was no picnic being a secret agent nowadays. Closing the door, Tolstoy began to explain to all of her worship why a statement was necessary before they’ll have some things happen, which was why they seized elemental pods too covered immediately, realizing the liminality of middle night when Earth began fallen toward the sun (non-translator’s note: SOMHAD, an intercessional Nicean force).

.   .   .

Marta’s strange feather, Menard, after routing plain reason, perceives of tectonic shuttles harboring one graded jam dateline.

III — x — Solving the Inner Peace.

.   .   .

In the dusky distance of diagonal mondo, clear need is warily a ghost fraud hurtle. Esmeralda’s prayer rang on dire knowledge. From heath, Në, sad godless chase, senses off balance, her apparel connective nacreous, cited aloft, on wings of a geosynchronous palfrey, arrived swiftly throughout messengers with new Native American dollar decently assumed tidings. Fernand, with little time to study the lamp, recognized for a fleeting instant a citizenship in recent locale. The four–garage festival followed a four twenty monaural into an unusual travelling Elgar recital, heard one morning at random. They swept for a dull erasure readily half–bank holidays from accustomed Susan Bees to avoid fearful grey climate.

By ten o’clock, numerous folk gathered to accost representatives of the entire street and to discover official placards, forbidding further mentions of any word as infringement, upon every venue. The ink dispersed during eleven written words, swiftly throughout pitched was his own pencil somewhere. The chairwoman asked into a corner of the room how one was. One was what one was, the writer replied, grumpily of how Fernand doted upon immersion within foreign environs to strengthen his creative implications. Turned away by evasive replies, bystanders resumed, had he ever shown kindness to the elderly? Now of Fernand: had he passed up chances on the morning of a new day that a lark ascended over the meadow, or shown kindness to the children in their game as they watched a shepherd’s crook fence with his vision, elicited a Ballad of London Nights woven upon a digital lattice, or drifted before dawn?

Vans arriving in echelon fluttered with information. Thinking search bistro once, he stopped for so long bottled amidst, and had excused his own introspection as unduly live to the need to pace oneself, that while nonetheless flinging reproach at the walls of his miserable garret for his daily inaction, shouted, startled by the fact that he had, for the first time, in a nearly public setting! Those who joined him tore these down, were remanded to become human, and a heavy silence removed quickly awakening new levels of awareness somehow after shadow puppet had come to this treble night. In zest he stumbled with whirlwinds, a change in season caused note of His environs, and had itemized them with bunted materiel of a freakily fashionable and bygone experience epoch.

Attended with a lively marimba chorus, the inky wells were found adjacent to a stack of polyvinyl chloride compact discs of Chocho, local Buffet sound–alike, vials of Biscaine et Bismuth, a recent scent, a pleasant neighborhood that matched a social cleansing to avert vying with lorn traffic, fanned swiftly throughout the entire utility apparatus the writer’s own, and where inhabitants had pulled in their motor carriage scraps, swept towards a special facility and otherwise laminar, growths of pasteboard, crepe, cambric, spec, ciphers, notices, announcements, or other display of maps, poles, grids, trees, or pixels of their surplus, relinquished, renascent, relic, and renounced articles out upon the promenade gathered as Fernand proffered and, as he dropped his coin in, roared with felicitation. The writer felt eventually light regard for those long accustomed to having him sit there, day and night, and thus given over to a careful lack of opinion pertaining to importance of anything he might have ever done with a great and wilder world and with a casual, detached forbearance, returned to his room.

The established toboggan shop lighting showed who winking at him slyly? Hell yes, Fernand had to reply to that one, having yet to kick that football into the porcelain kiln, which would bring him to a future exile stocked. “Yon Arjuna morning, just sprung from secret squirrel detention, it marched to its area ready to take everything real, and she was in the eye scream parlor, for Pete’s sake it was two hundred and seventy three degrees below zero, what in heck was she doing standing in such splendor? The devil himself had tuned her with his fork.” Shadow puppet warned discoverer (all too busy) that this rhymed with pool. “If it or I reversed course,” signaller (all too busy) squirmed, “only she would not see me, but was it too late?”

Plair finished relating the contexts. Menard replied, “she had just assumed responsibility for the following power point slide explanations: U.S. initiative to purchase stolen artifacts on e–bay (Menard foundered the program to palliate the Ossianian embassy); untenets, dark matter cousins of tappers (giant space snails who carry aliens about the universe); the impending cryogenic sabbatical, facilitated by deliverance of necessary curare preparations, of the Trombone Society; Dauphine Hudspeth’s sudden release to shadow the Ossianian prefect; deal between the ancient Niceans allowing souls of humanity to chose subsumption within inter–regnum soul laundering facility; popularly known as wishram, the dispensational illuminati; Niobe’s vendetta gainsaid our own sun; distortions of time; and wells drilled by Niceans causing the basic basalt sial elision that will trigger reversion of the solar system into a pre–Ptolemaic configuration. In any case, anticipatory geological shocks have generated changes in existing order, as former Transylvanian Republics petition to enter the U.S.,” Menard conceded, and reminding Plair, that all ejecta garnered during human intelligence missions were official property of the United States and that withholding of same placed the offender within strict liabilities, Menard asked if the ensign had anything else to add.

As if parting with a momento hitherto destined to one’s boyhood cigar box, Plair ineluctably produced a stamp sized shellac mortise upon which a happy lizard beamed. After dismissal, Menard returned to the crumpled pastry note, cognizant that it contained an alphanumeric sequence that could have been applicable to any number of departments. If he chose to go with his worst fear, he would have to notify someone that the firewall for the ongoing Polar Star orbital project was engraved for group mica noise. How so this was done seemed simple, involving lateral communications of such tortuous intensity, seemingly aggravated by recent efforts to ensure inter–agency transparency, that Menard opted to cold start the restaurant, the commissariats, and warn folks at Commerce about monitoring mainland manufacturers’ representatives. Dispatching Plair upon the proscribed errand of Tolstoy might also allay the latter’s suspicion. He decided to boot up his old ARPA link and search for names of everyone who had ever participated in a mah–jonng tournament, indexed by location, ethnicity, and order of finish, since any number of given years. As for the lizard, his granddaughter, Jasmine, had clamored for something interesting to do during her stay in town, so Menard also decided to have the mah–jonng tile returned to the concierge of Horace’s hotel, so that the latter would be reassured by its return and yet perhaps also unnerved into making some unforeseen blunder. If anything but nondescript, Jasmine would be thrilled to undertake this espionage.

.   .   .

My Worries Are Under Control.

.   .   .

In dog years, Frank’s mostly understanding couscous vendor explained how the creative impulse proved austere. Soon, while Lothar scrawled the tube on with yet utopian quark seeds, Frank Middleford in handle doth hide a surpassing lemniscate love of comptometry, the reconciliation of disparate columns and cascading files, collation, that desperate search through fiscal wastes for a corroborating cipher, and that pre–dawn joy elicit in discovering the elusive cit. In his insidious war of subterfuge, staples were his friends and, spotting an abandoned paper clip left in the corridors of liberty, would stoop to claim it, confident its anomic wake would bind ever greater tallies.

Indeed washed an overridden faith in mankind that habit wrought to him this ticket; as barrator for any muffin foes too swish for soliciting our bob from father exchequer, preferring their balance lapse to cover future exigency, he had not once ever adopted the bust kabob trade line of his murky over beers (before) that aren’t you simply making an inherent luxury to the government? By Jove, in 2012, in the event they wanted to make an interest free loaf to Her Majesty, we’ll roll out onto Grosvenor and sing Rule Britannia until clients’ discourse, appreciative of a servant who never joked about their estate, indeed regarded all property as communal, one’s largesse a matter of deficit whim, and moreover never told anyone what to do with their own.

But with discerning consistence, he’d vigorously secluded their own notions. Had they languished in immoderate darkness groping? When he poignantly maintained, ledgers venerably assiduous, stifled everytime a tonic mobs bent stuff near a miss, he’d exclaim, brimming with altruism. Slight aromas of cuttlefish mixed with wax paper zoomed around some squarely abysmal jazz. Lugubriously crept across cobblestones, dispensing multi–colored steam puffs that wafted into dovecotes, the 6:15 trundled behind the power curve, a semi–conductor tapped portals with a wand, and rafts of individuals spilled into tributaries of habitual movement. There were compulsive avengers, twirling their coal rose scuttles after a day fleecing tops on Market Garden; there went the bleary–eyed dramaturge: you may as well hang a please make up this room shortly sign around your neck, as much as copy from your neighbor’s Daily Mirror the crossword puzzle beckoned aha!

Five letter word meaning whatever, Frank bent to peer at five across, tucked beneath the elbow of an elderly actuary hustling toward the Hornet and Hammock, while Bitsy, a bipedalian biodegradably, ephemeralizing a goldener era than was ever before known, so loud in her own atelier that jars of mousse rattled against the shelves of her father’s basement, a sixth chord twanged to tune of Tomorrow, reminiscent of the morning her family drove the spindly trap jitney all the way to Aldershot to catch an inability to resolve conflicts at four o’clock in the evening.

A plastic cable attached to her fender was anyone’s guess that whatever syringe seemed available next to the Watchtower eflot thrust over the threshold weeks ago, given the pilot light of the water heater spluttered outside of the box fifteen times, warping the demo copy of Queen Nephrite’s first album, “Is There Anymore Sunshine Left?” that, according to Sr. Florian, had sold nearly twenty copies for the bland boy revival at eco–fair. Next to the village dumpster™, Sr. Florian, the band’s actuary, whose primary talent formerly was an undeviating closed door policy, had been noted for reaching unassailable conclusions. How Bitsy, bassist Esmeralda, and Ion, their fifth percussionist in three weeks, had planned to spend the anticipated pay–off was a tale for the ages.

First they were to ride the tram on a visit to the new Gap in Tottenham, where Stang wanted to check on a brand new consignment of cargo cults, and pass out eflots for their next jam to customers in front of Orange Julius because Althea’s cousin worked there and said it was okay. Suddenly an arrangement of jampots, emplaced to alert Bitsy to visitors, clattered like an apocalyptic calliope and Grendelle forced his way into the garage with a powdered gale of flakes for town, carrying, at last year’s pace, batch bang send–ups and it wasn’t fit outright, manner of an obol, he whistled, “are you sure you want to stop the train,” compassionately, diverting several sal volatile mobs from their haggis?

.   .   .

“What are the utmost components of your civilization?” “To illustrate,” said An, sensing the need for such, “let us turn to an example of a monad whom, if not deaf to squawks of deprivation around him, considered immunity his privilege by virtue of his institutional knowledge.” Into Village Court recess, the visiting Ossianian minister was penned by Argus–eyed vigil of a hundred scribes, who asked his opinion upon workings of that Congress across the pond.

“Well, to paraphrase a man I never met,” Ahem winked, “‘if they make a law, it’s a joke, and if they make a joke, it’s a law.’” This maverick minister with his geothermal golf cart was great copy. Some of them wished to take him home in a jar. His musing was curtailed by awareness of a question on the very topic, “have you ever thirsted to be the first kid on your block to arrive at the conclusion that life is but a cassette tape tab, brought away, to seal vacant capstance, yet always retapable?” “Arrangements,” Ahem muttered, laid off in a silicone silence. “Do they really need fifty–three states?” Ahem thought of an answer.

“Thank you, first, for anticipating my conclusion. One door, fully and certainly ajar, to date, ultimate, viaducted us into a really swell place.” A glance over the crowd showed Ahem the malefic glare of an unnamed assassin, the evicted bass player of their teenage garage band, who sometimes was able to see this happen to other individuals, few of whom ever indicated awareness of this gift. When this mood came upon him, Ion was possessed of ability to read the ether surrounding all things. Any object inherently had a scroll, floating weightlessly before his gaze, specifying his attachment to it.

Ion had not had a chance to share this skill with anyone yet, and for all he knew, might not ever, for it seemed unimportant to him now that the Erinyes had re–entered his head, forcing him to bend most of his energy into resisting desire to ask why is this all that there is to show for all of that at everyone, all the while knowing that they fed on this and were confident that he would not be able to think of anything, short of his own death, to escape this. Stealthily, Ahem’s hand slipped to carriage return. “Peerlessly,” he continued, “upon public willingness to ascribe any or everything from a simple strategy of time block buying, I salute our friends’ relentless search for coping strategies.”

A wave of relief swept over the crowd as Ahem flipped the ignition of his Tox. “One person, for example, has taken to awakening each morning to strains of Also Sprach Zarathusra.” Fumbling with his vest, the named assassin hesitated, aware that Ahem was speaking of Ion. “One more person, in visualization principle, in dress once more as the other, viewed as fending hornets in a red and white checked chef’s barbecue” — as he read the bill, Ahem developed an uncontrollable urge to remember it was later than he thought. Moreover, he was aware of being reminded that the closest exit might be behind him. Still capable of death simulating ague at will whenever an awkward situation emerged, the assassin named shrieked at him, “in any case, there is something outside of everyone!”

Ending this drivel, the assassin named Ion sensed concentration of health into fewer minds and flew past the flower shop. How lovely all of these displays were! He was filled with admiration for skilled hands which had originated these ensembles, an emotion mingled with qualms that he was unable to purchase a single leaf. All of his wherewithal sent to leeches, subdividends, and usurers, he stood, shut out, isolated, warmed only by cordite coils and their sweet smell of success. Further into the market, a stall offered screaming yellow zonkers slashed down at eight to the dinar; how ironic that this would have been a wonderful deal before schools where he had maintained his healthy snack machines had been zoned from existence.

At the crosswalk, as foreign UV nudged into his comfort zone, on this note, a situation of existence started and it was time to check out. A mental image of a touch tone screen flashed press here to begin. The electric impulse coursing through his solar plexus was such a tingly feeling within the maelstrom of disintegration. He was making a difference in people’s lives, and this  was making him feel warmth. With its sleek design and improved performance, the belt enclosed him within a cylinder of subjectivism. A flowering brucellis nestled within fronds of doryopteris, a eutaxia climacteric in clustered panicles throve amidst flattened tubercles of pelecyphora, and ubiquitous sprays of saxifrage adorned a field of andromeda glaucophylla. Before the Great Window, he had usually proved capable of stammering out a complete sentence in response to any inquiry, and now in every narrowing spiral valley he walked through aisles smelling things: the comforting aroma of Clorox removed to him an infancy when giants were neither east nor west, and the crowd shifted in drab terror. Blood spilled, not a lot, but enough to detract from the overall sense of wellness Ion had expected to derive from this.

As he read in newspapers the following day, the assassination of the beloved Ossianian foreign minister was unpopular with the public. For his own safety, the Ruthenian government extradited Ion to an inalienable right to write about nothing, from where he continued to proclaim his innocence on the aerodrome telescreen. author of poor haiku, the pink eye caught to an even better isle (a mere stopover), also gratified to learn that Congress had voted full steam ahead on the Polar Star orbital project. “Though the author of this project is a reprobate and a miscreant,” Senator Cañon (I–Ill.) explained, “we must not throw babies out with the bath water, as it is the perjorative of atoms to isolate the very prospect interior, creased. Unlike the heroine, we are not free to limit the land of forgotten tents,” where signaller (all too busy), woke, “by shhh Snorggi will hear us, even in this crystal yurt off depths of the Ponzi Isles where, indwelt, see even now those great fans gnashing over there, to paraphrase frail gloom, impatiens glandulifera, we’d heaven only to digitalize, wave freight greatly sped due though you live; cannot fine off man’s distancing that process?”

As Grendelle adjusted the tourniquet upon his nose, brushing smug buntings plastered in feigned innocuity, the chaste coeropheri vastened yonder sobriety of demotic stunt foams. Signaller (all too busy) palled while they met the realtor chic with endogenous stares as–is by explaining, “there was once, a–bobbin, her sneeze let go of the handlebars for the first time, like only once was I ever an ardent discoverer (all too busy), its idle gazes flitting aside, yet from inner brilliance, it was pathologically primeval at the timid age of infamy, for when gathered fourth, to trade tasteless anecdotes, it could only pale spitefully, understanding only in theory.” The morning diagonal tiger its mild dude, our peevish Hesitance went plaid grange daughter, yet in baudier tithes than sanity should ever twitter, living ivy thong sophomores, half–expected to materialize through out town, dissolved in seas of a wild claim, television, obscurity, polyester bland, orange folk tunes set to march, cameos, trademarks, pillbox hats, flags, lonely stares, cruets, remembrance, match.

With visitors arrived to cleanse and starch the temple, our soon morpheme guys felt trebly honored by this visitation of fervor and patriotic orient. Rotely anon, her sisters’ shriek of unwitting, and Sangreal beheld the visiting caretakers along, leeks climbed, lent with white teeth sets, ornamental porkpie heir hats rakishly atop coifed blond cares, their cured, with open flips, or exertions of their almighty faith’s jai alai tea. Transistors clicked on. “Whoosh,” continued Grendelle. “If these hand–offs voided inclusion of monosyllabic hyphenations recently, their myth spoke more of grown–up cheer gone boating than any possible regret before acclimating men to universal time coordinates, and mere pride requests anymore, and struck within confines of that sham issue to ever come betwixt us, had to throw up Him as aegis too, for a cyber rotisserie fantasy league, pinnacle of emotional distance this periphery, where tarried always these horrid cults calling to out–wit me, spoofing vast sources. Such are those who will find nothing but emptiness, and perhaps a Cheshire smile, and a prince of darkness, greater than me, who will seduce them techno–Beowulf neo–icons into building grand new orders, in no particular order of course, until they will prattle about and how too late they realize that shadow puppet is sending a comet.

“Just to make sure Snorggi is asleep, I will get help.” “Please do,” signaller (all too busy) muttered as Grendelle vanished. Glancing at their own states, the young sophomores saw them as waifish, disheveled, not lacking a certain native charm, yet stinted by this onset of ice cream perfection. Their air eked of lye minima fuel and grumbler, igniting the word of shadow puppet within a burning present. An ether sweat argot haha given them lent, ill used though as man forward groan stale will all, until they cease to remember My name, in thousands. So a lie is relayed, to certain hegemonous entreaty, and Sangreal displaced. “We have received no confirmation of that,” she rejoined. “Assertions to the contrary, you are,” she persisted. “Unless,” Ion mused. Suddenly, he forgot his interlocutors. He forgot his dread. A globe that stood upon a balustrade in the corner office was oval. “This has been a very difficult attempt,” Sasha interposed. The inquest fell away from Ion and generally swam out of focus. With one small step toward the desk, he was but a shadow.

Plush across the room, a globe that was not the same, stood writhing in warped folds of the crumpling bill. Oceans, an inky purple, laced with stars, covered a majority of it. “Intent on them, Mr. Van Etnabaron, you cannot fail to notice that you are still awake,” Sergei interjected. While still on another step, continents of the west were, as Harold recalled from his childhood, smiling suggestively. Knocking upon the door behind them clumsily was by sheepish silence grouted. South America, a pastel of hodgepodge, greeted everything north of it. In letters of sepia font that spanned the Atlantic, he read United — “I need a new fork,” the resident ordered. The tapping continued. That tone Van Etnabaron could not resist, for as he leaned forward, walls swelled and the room, filled with monarchs, fluttered in a climacteric of unfinished sentences. Irritably, the resident repeated to Harold, “start from the top,” and rose to answer her own door.

.   .   .

Returned, Logan found that his desk, if not exactly clear, was neatly poised for a sweep. As impervious as Ferguson had defined himself to the probability of losing the chairmanship of accumulated interests of the Church, he knew long ago that the act of circumscription to real, as well as ecumenical, stewardship was one more hat than he had a head for. The evening, not well spent, and the receptive church staff long dismissed, Logan stood in front of his desk and listened to telephone rings. Lifting it at the third, Logan pre–empted the executive voice mail service and replied, “office of the chairman.”

The caller pegged him instantly. Ferguson felt strangely relieved that the junior pastor, Dr. Chad Leaky, had addressed him reverentially, as was not lately his wont. “I’m leaving,” Chad replied. “I’ve gone clear. Try not repeating me.” They each laughed, for old time’s sake. Chad resumed, “I’m clear and I’ve gone closer. To patches, of, daylight.” Fretfully Ferguson finished the sentence, “falling into the well?” “At day’s end,” Chad intoned. Ferguson, hoping a lightning prayer would suffice, prayed that this moment had not come. “You have, too much work, now, for the glory of our Lord.”

If long sure that this friend was bent on his replacement, the Reverend could find no remedy but to remind Chad of the empty chair. “I’m not here for it,” Chad demurred. “You’re certainly not here for, that.” “Logan,” Chad posited, “your stellar master awaits.” “There isn’t one anymore.” Chad’s reply, “for forgiveness from your earthly cares, follow us,” reminded Ferguson of that Orphic pledge paraphrased to the last line, ‘may he receive you at the bridge!’ “Along the shore of evening’s dawn,” Chad recited. Inter–outlet net degrading surf traffic snuffled signals said nothing.

.   .   .

A far-off era, panned for marvelous cash, is too inhabitated to print other proven omen.

III — ix — A Test of Rather Our Mint Wit Thus.

.   .   .

Awakened, from assignation with many a monad for wishes, by flight attendants insisting that no more airsick bags were available, Fernand saw a diamond somewhere in this dark mineshaft, the cabin flooded in a golden light, and yanked open his Michelin guide to mark a glorious descent from Arc de Triomph: a perfunctory frisk at customs made him feel extraneous in a super-annuative sense, and anticipating a train trip across beautiful countryside, sunset suddenly again, plunging the wagon–litré into whispering darkness. He slept, intangibly numb, and a vacuum with distaste out into that roaring night yawned. It was a terrific funnel, which screened the discoverer’s (all too busy) alarm through a time, measured in expanseless gusts, seemingly French, thought blessed with every Zen design, the craft stale, its plot frayed, it will out, sang the ethereal beam with praises cold, discoverer (all too busy) fell into the nose of the living seal.

The monad had no chance moreover of declaring his love. For Indocile pigeonholed his direct missive, requiring a tabula upon which to compose, and all that remained, acrostic glyphs etched in palimpsests of his lingering affection, were not enough to deter the monad from holding his place. Insofar then, as incipient harbingers of an exigence went unremarked, astrategic responses comprised bulk of an unanswerable question. Charged with care of an enormous mirror, fledgling fjulsfut were already tugging at flimsy linoleum–like mantle, and of this situation few of the planet’s residents were yet ware. The fourth struggled into rolling fremitus, expedient comforts located in activity of resequenced force durably sustained his motif until, with a swallow of involuntary despair, sensing grasp of an anadiplosis, the discoverer (all too busy) jerked on them astrally and was unfindable for lengthy periods — periods as vast clouds of dust peered over impassively.

The little icons had remained unlit ever since the sidetracked revival of anything, from whence hardly enough jingles were to offset wardrobe in latter stages of somehow. The current of the Atlantic inflow swept eastward along the African coast and toward ancient roads of the inner Tyrhennian Sea at top speed, borne along by toasts, solemn oaths, and tinkling sunrises too lingering to count. This, their third, found Van Etnabaron askance about crew mates, nobly tabled, in the launch wake far below, actually wondering how large this ship was? Ælfric startled them by announcing it was a forty–eight and one half–foot Oakley class lifeboat that was rocking! The skipper leaned over the edge and barked in a voice that would have knocked pumpernickel from a Danish.

The topside hand, recognized, and crestfallen, pushed a geophysicist away and shoved his clothes up the ladder. The skipper belaboring the cringing misfortunate all the way back to the bow, Sasha watched said admirably luxuriant geophysicist stir from her recumbence and ascend rungs of the steeply pitched aft deck. As they neared her, Van Etnabaron forgave himself for starving. Ælfric turned away from the fore and regarded them with a not forgotten dour vicissitude, glowering at the launch hung far below the bark of their collective focus, a spot he at almost any cost avoided. Delphinium rode the Atlantic inflow for sixty hours and rolled up to the Straits of Messina. Upon a spot to be chosen the travelling troupe would unfold its watery tents and guide them to the best of their ability the finding to be found.

.   .   .

“In the struggle to conserve our popularity we had made many champions. We are endeared to count without waning, for if our people were to misrepresent the dada born unto them who has known when they were sleeping or wide awake, wherein sibilant impositions, swept from enough verse as witty tag made known to thee, how already have appeared, amid invented swift costs ago, heaped comfrets of jostly tiding, only to moot their blank stares. That has increased our thain inordinately, only manifest in the depth to which we were next successful in perceiving hearts of our people, but moreover ulteriorly, it has increased the chasm of misperception that has existed between us. Then we have become stingier to them, since it has been written that when read this people have with rigidity refused to listen to us, subsequently we will refuse to listen to them anymore when the skiers eased.” Ahem’s speech in sight, affluently “yon fool fishtailed into the twelfth century,” was messaged instant Althea, via, “thirteenth,” this listener amended.

“What square potatoes ever, he’s blogging out lists, itemized sequentially, tasking Uncle Sam for damages. He’ll then return home waving his lists around.” “Talk about endemic entropy? The thematic heterodoxies welcomely outwitted!” “Such tittle–tattle, a first for Ossian. Telling everyone we’re good for it, we’ll con around just enough as ombudsman, very copacetically and empathetically, until no wiser, he facetiously waives every thin kismet!” As done with epigrams, the listener agreed, “he’s availed of your tender sureties long enough. He’ll turn nastier.” “We’ll raise the ante. When he recovers the trek bash, he’ll have it but we’ll still be we. Whoosh! A fused lively wind–up and that’s it for his magic carpet ride!” “In that case and fast, count us in,” the listener voted, adding, “for an astute anticlimax, who’s going to bell the Buddha?” “Here is where all that you need to know now is less than you knew before,” was a caveat of ædith. “Suffice to say, ion trails are becoming to him. Just follow our website tomorrow.”

.   .   .

Dauphine lifted a manorial brow during these interesting times that were clocking too much prosaicness into everyone’s department. Alas for the South Sea bubble they often lamented in their cheerless symposiums, knitting socks to throw at anyone with enough temerity to hum that the sun would ever arise another day. They were whispering in an echo chamber of stained glass about an omega wave that belted into every function you thought you could return to change any time. With all the angst of community cinema, Noone considered these faultless porticoes of disinvented house warming withstood only from juxtaposition of a mezzanine that served as catspaw for enjoyment of solo metempsychosis. Along here appended labels weirdly jangled around skimpily robed newts, who received inquiries upon sacrilegious topics for edifice of a massed shoddiness. Comprised of celeritous realities, these shifts indeed usefully skewed enrollment away and bygone asymptotes were quaint if at all extant. Suddenly this trip was over, and in a dreary hamlet, a placard at the station indicated a telephone. Brusquely a cab arrived, driven by a silent matron.

“This to the Institute is then the way,” he asked? After a curt nod, Fernand found himself glancing for telltale tattoos, and realized he must stop doing this lest he give away his mission. In fact, l’nurt Glyntz often drew inferences to the process from her own insights and likened osmosis with most usually imperceptible flinches toward both a Great Seal fished from the Thames, whence it had been thrown during an Orange outset, and several other interpersonal contretemps.

That her ex was a schlub had neither failed to escape notice of gelatinous seconds nor achieved its ostensible purpose of exacting an irrefutable casus belli betwixt them, and she flailed across the spectrum deciduously concerned that the Hiss mock trial, if touted quixotically, had never proved Raoul’s utmost complicity in the buy ten get out free scandalousness. Stoically l’nurt absorbed their leaden taunts in devotion of extravagant minuets designed in thickening of Pyrogabion, thus assuring unimpeded access into unceasingly free floating dementia. In this, effort of her kempt if fiery obvioregals were deemed essential, even by auditors who’d exhibited jaundiced behavior toward other various procedures.

With this carte blanche begrudged, the elated hackettes breezed through codes, relishing the chance to switch from theory to practicuum, and the shells unsold instead diminished by thirds lasting for many knocked socks. At all of the enclosed bees Dauphine (or Stang, as childish bowdlerization of her matron saint entitled her) was most adept at applying lessons of a lengthy technical course behind them, and at her behest sine qua non waves bore algebraically quivering incantations integral to impermeability of the Village server.

.   .   .

Their peevish mullion sash onwardly freed, Core’s team wended in. As any good spore at home hung on a tilty stage, Lethe’s AC resident had routed neuter footrest chat to show how she might shop their inventive yeti up a Taurean amphora; yet a widow hugged a cult film of actuality, thought ever available thanks to the present switch, artifice, and all around alarm arrived, looming, allowing a chance of detail, in imperishable rite, and waded acrophobically under lime lights stretched in solar winds; while weighted versus an orison in nonesuch moves described, must any applicant agree to be held liable for all recognizable attempts to describe America recently? They were justifiably rid of their tinted yet blighty jai alai tea: first, in confidence hitherto mooted gratis, huge ducks sunned on the tan lah–lah a weird January to glimpse one divoty office. Subsequently, victory playing hoopster vice, polls concocted a grudging scone to trim the national turvey.

Long distrustful of damned beatniks, local townsfolk now left their scuttles and drove out to cheer their tea party in recorded throngs. Poor and poorer, lamp and loon, light and dark, hot and heavy they all melted into a community awry. Those who went in a partial perplexity of spouting little ire astonished lurking answers when you think of them, for if complication, sound, ceaseless oppressive operas sang hope, all evicted, for a change, burrowed under ground all illustrant seizures, a million pounds became late at a sure span. While atop of an iron board, he dreamt of extrinsic avenues of wan cathodes, acutely pensive over them, at work as in play, you might not blame. “Mr. Van Etnabaron, tell me exactly what you did that caused you to get here. Start from the top.” “I am no longer a global citizen,” Ion murmured. The resident thought back to a cold and misty day, when pastoral skies were shattered by trembling rotors. Escorts assembled beneath as the roc, a beetling black world bird, descended from overcast. Its cousins, aimed with trowels, dankened the skies and whirled away.

To constrain an ordinal breech of initial consequence, all upwind and poor to anxieties ambled heavily, “thrippence me nary alongside toneless cellos oft restrained,” begged th’ratwi’thorns, a file piper inept on great duty; “chill out,” quaintly remarked Plair, for had he not inconstantly proffered, as basis of fact, alas unknown earnest services of probity (if estranged in suits of enervating duress) — Plair, pinioned in reification, nudged the requisite lens to thereat, whose own will immure, and sectioning this largesse worn out alertly, the beginner innately therein leisurely searched for openly flooded pirouette anonymity. Lorelian harps of politesse shushed, lulling in their hurried matzoth tray ditto another gag, and half able to enumerate immediate worries nevertheless Menard, no longer expecting from Plair ought but further formidable evasion, and habitually forestalling meager epithets pertinent to the latter’s inept irregularities, suddenly detected a prodigiously biased intransigence.

Abrogating due vacancies with the deportment of habit, the direct aura of elegance clung to his other should old quaint swill during drafts of a central random memo directing that policies forthwith neap assiduously cease. Having sent for the inferior subaltern, Menard heaped upon the novitiate’s plate an outpouring of shortfall, insofar as the ultimate destination of the heiress Constancia Nadeladimov remained undisclosed. With immoderate deference, Plair suggested that interloping developments had withal, if subtrahending his initial instruction, convinced him of the necessity of suborning lateral initiatives. Menard pointedly enumerated the hazards implicit in deviation and was nigh forth upon sending him out when the youth proffered, with relative animation, as if suddenly recalled, a crumpled pasty note inset within the septic pin. Warily reading the tuneless etchings, Menard gruffly ordered Plair to relate the context with a practiced eye toward future schedules.

.   .   .

An Epic Fold.

.   .   .

“The problem, as we did not recognize the languages we adopt for the players,” Ahem’s keynote address persisted, “sometimes forces us to imagine that a gaff, not wholly non–intentional, is lurking within the hard drive housing the sea of script we believe this might some day be. So, ahead of time, we must apologize to everyone who has read this far. Marked and mocked by meaning, growing incessantly fearful of the shortness of our epic, we were moved to number our words, as if each was in itself a nation to overthrong the world and its observers.

“We, who had no vita, knew that if the epic extant, that which was purported to have had no meaningful resemblance to the unfolding of the events depicted here, yet by its very bulk ruining our life, told in itself of more than nineteen hundred pages and of each comprising more than forty lines of over thirteen words each, then we vowed we would go them better by one, by jingo! Forasmuch as we once hated all attempts to instruct us in the Word, we found that we had tied ourselves in knots over getting the things that made time go astray. We had impatiently deceived ourselves with dreams of days, of diligence, of all that becoming unity, a single work of lasting value.

“We had in our hand a compiled list of items, missing from the Ossianian Hermitage, to be ratified by none other than the U.S. Congress, which at darkness (for it sat regularly) half conducted over a sink, when their adepts raised at odds mental banners of foment, plunged our land into as civil a simple unrest as was then in vogue. We rang moments, reeling in topaz iameter Morse. Fullness begged from gods, lacking the vision we once, striding zestfully to what was the front of the world’s rank, until bested and beaten, or at least allowing this perception to coalesce, code; collect, we turned back from the victorious more and took notes: as for those of you who have heard this far, take heart (if long ago, a set and go forth attitude to amend past blights would be contemplated; but worn out of the weft and warp of the way to paydirt, who would stop)?

“Writing needs the seemliest leaven (o craft of seamlessness) to bear you through and leave you messaged and renewed. You begin to accept the nip of the wind song to witness of a design, random concrete, spun by forces you hope will be nice to you. You perceive every emanating causality as proof directly editing of a greater plan than sitting around waiting for this to have happen.” Suddenly there was a tinny introduction to an amaneunsistic figuration. Ahem was eager to whitewash the impudence stiffly exhibited to his mother Niobe on the ground that she wore a yellow ribbon.

Anon Ahem added, morally justified in exacting a thing, of all of the times when, after having self–congratulated his own impeccable behavior, the most terrible stories exactly confuting that filtered within earshot, “an, Ambassador of inter–regnum, an An Indocile was a perfectly clever womad, and we desired and praised her redemption bought. And of course, she served, withered conscience, disgraceful dotage, organizational gridlock, technological hubris. To focus on our primary task, they placed this slender handsome bobbin, of a race renowned for its dynamic copy, in charge of nearly everything.” Incidentally she chose, in her lack of interest, a static sterile second as her occupant, the sidereal frug master Hognozed. Functionally given over to brief periods of bustling, he assembled tinctures of astatine for their shelves.

The Ambassador reviewed a message perceived to have emanated from the rebel expedition. Tireless, devoted to principle, yet avid, members of fjulsfut ere sown into fabric of the indigo sphere, determined to restore homeland value amidst the warped aftermath of perfidiousness. Rendering utility obsolete, individual spacemon’ forsook their plaintive creeds in an effort matchless, freshening a dative if incipient trend toward percussive formulaic bonding. Long held as doctrine, spoke a senior scrapmon’, that en masse departures were seen as the best forestallment of deterrence, went from the window in the wake of wintry leaven. Made liege as a detriment to conclusion, he continued, mobilization of imminent specialties went far to bridge the huge gap, seemingly foisted, through dint of sheer tradition, that was perceived to exist between the active and passive components of force. No stranger to retroversion of aim, igneous methods conducive to an over–centralization of total quality provided a mandate for diaspora that overtook profuse councils of the entity that held as best kept this armament of surplus skill, until a moment, provisionally dreaded, nonetheless ordained a call to aptitude.

“It were,” scrapmon’ exclaimed, “as if an upsurge, lacking in talent what it made up for in spontaneity, had crested beyond the very land itself.” An article, descrying magnitude of the breach, could merely scratch the gradual ascent toward concomitance that ensued from an overlay of sinking motivations as members put paid to outdated whatnots. Appended chef d’cabinet, “the simpler course, for want of an earlier noodle, that was to wave until tapped with conducive intermediate upheavals, voided itself in the swell of precaution.” The dutiful observance of necessity beckoned, as always, but an exegesis of devotion, met with stock indifference, subsidized the tireless Nicean watch with freshets of basic firmament.

An argot, long held as extrinsic to information revolt, that now transfixed youthful practicalities with its moldering staves, that in truth, precious, sojourned amidst them for days, revived ancient concepts hitherto consigned to dustbins of apocrypha. One of their more vexatious commodities, that was requirement to refute innumerable charges, emanating from custom, that they were outmoded, vastened in the upgraded severity with which they performed their applications. Not one participant lacked a scruple to avert leveling. The text went on to enumerate grievances.

At item fifty-three (united artisans, in the event that they are engaged in performing tedious and involved tasks for inter–regnum, implore for the right to work straight through their lunch break whenever the heck they feel like it), the bobbin expressly broke the white noise with giggles of contumely, her highly reputed translator (all too busy) apprehending most difficult lapses in grammar due to inherent, alliterative ignorance of fjulsfut.

.   .   .

Stranded nuclei reproaching an even dirtier muse, Ion neared the sound of hospitable quaking, silent all the livelong day, emitting urban screeches, post–scripting recurrent gerunds; his dreary agonistes legitimated now viler ends and sprang to a spruce needle, tipping Ion into a detached poise.

Alone, he signaled truer assessments of art, did stumblingly aver a candlestick imitation, flashed vested strobe lights after pleasantly introducing himself to a blonde penguin, and brandished melting epochs tributary to night. Instead of enervation hereafter, readily reignite hell, spoke a voice (in bad Vlach); albeit perversely, tarantulizations slipped clearly through bandersnatch induced static, turning that proclaimed mantra lucidly indicative of Otto, namesake of endless thinking, Ion oddly edited while an ebbed tide, “only I, nutcases,” he shouted at them, “thought the young smart mon depressed me as a scary heretic?” Our hale son beamed up at the Carpathians.

Belying his retractions posted on the Village Server, Ion’s familiars, in rare unison, had overlooked him as too unstable to honor memory of their father, assassinated by instigationists, and brothers, who perished on barricades at sunrise. Every New Year’s Day, their brat pack, too dizzy to spell ciphers in their garage band, each valuably dozed from five till dawn, tenuously today lolling on the regimental dime until their market–based dismal science returned from a summer exposition. While mostly vested observers were wont to ignore events, fewer proclaimed this Wordstock at least a summary file compressed into fifty weeks, and as Noone hoped Ion might fudge an unspeakable network, at any moment, aerial pageants verged susceptibly. Hecate’s thunderous threat yawned in sudsy ringlets; each lift disturbed their ranks often while in an antechamber awoke thin Ion to grievous pickles difficult to reconcile with the surfing of otters.

Tuning forks thereof, a following lapdog eventfully asked the region to begin freezing all of his assets; by now enough lingering straw men of willful existence proscribed that one could rule again, sowing enough disbelief to encourage Ion that, after regime officially changed, he might just repel important businesses across the nearer bank in disregard of resilience. Chagrined about paltry albums long enough to disburse pensive asterisks personally, Ion dreamt of bursting scrolls, recurrent staves left to wave untended before the piles of the non–Danube.

This land was dimly independent, routinely blithe about everyone, and a probable cause and effect ensued whenever Ion was subject to leveling conducted by missal invoking officials who collected all of his ceramics, to be inventoried by ladies who asked if he had ever accepted shadow puppet while stroking him on the kneecap. His catalogued files honestly discussed, though well hidden, and casually riffled by two very junior hackers, who in their new and stiff epaulets barked questions like seals that could only swear, Ion did what always served in tough spots. Hyperventilating, he fell to the floor in a death–stimulating ague.

“I never would have thought of that first,” Suppressant attempted to enough console someone, who felt they were not making easily a way out of thinking about beatitudes, fulfilled past in a fortnight of bird cage withal, while knowing if a mechanism, applied to resumed vision, given over to die for manifold stretches of immoderate kinds, had led not over mean stellar spans of a seeming restful palace. For at that stage, an enormous monk, whose work, specified under rubric from distress to antinomians, placed thereat a universe singularly familiar to individuals who turned from the disparate rush to view this. If comported days, identified, serrated, halves, comprised among any number of audits practically, sat versus the serenity of our solemn compact from persons defined, through active arts inimical to standard damply, then fell this to a protagonist to correct with all haste phantasms deemed despicable to the national public.

Few, who were aware that night of more scheduled terrains via commercial method, were in considerable anguish from inanimadverting personal opinions pertaining to a system. Managing the cauldron of agencies wisely, lest arrest overtake them, the primacy impounded a periodic vexation with previous issues concerning their menial fitness. Perceived in overt culture as inexcellent, they grew alone apart, lured though revolted with existing mores of service; truant exemplars fairly though well befrighted the plaintive financiers of Nesbit. Bent upon sowing tares of increased moral expense, yet harried with directions from everyone who was not like us, proselytized with the vehemence of one who had no intentions often, proclaiming all who persisted in assuming respectable adjectives free, was all from ædith screed.

.   .   .

Up the hundreds dash, Van Etnabaron, being with every tent aside a Kalisthenes, intuits treacle stages in pentothal, fine help to Orpheum’s vague attainder.

III — viii — 1/100^th of One Sneeze.

.   .   .

Sundry sheet fane inched into conscious imagery of egotism, some necessary accoutrements left heedlessly if in deliberate fashion, pressed as damascene implants commemorating dialogues in the time allotted period. Nearly atomic squiggles, inked by cathartic epistles, foretold of as far away a shift on our rusty old plant, remiss in foment, acute panic held as newsworthy, that understandably innumerable thriving coastal resorts kept half earth diodes or soil nuked, incurring sod house buses.

A sail upon whence any might flee impending cataclysm, converted into canvas, rested easily against a lost horizon. Disparate bifocals, snatched for, evoking that stab of regret and a flood of mental reconstruction, were all on Sangreal’s nose. Unsuccessfully, she had striven for balance in another’s off–fair, only to find this giant body of bourgeois neo–positivism, grown enchanted by her cubist perspective, clamored in the adjacent phaeton, their pamphlets strewn everywhere.

Last requested to illuminate properties, conferred in a trip to the Noses, throughout the crass demo turn–on it stood, with untenable governance, Raoul heard here hot–wired, “disappointed to be unable to offer no other assessment beyond this: airs and counter ballasts persisted for days after; such an event enabled even individuals not part of original recreation to tag albeit unprepared and oft unwillingly along. Finely were vast tracts of time multi–tasked even at drear convenience; for example, monads easily braced instant for arrival at déjà–vu without first prior acting lessons extant. Individuals, in lack of all incentive to go on missing a thing, oft braved the murky shoal to locate long lost terms. Even houseguests found empowerment to go forth and accomplish errands.”

Dawdling on one way out, one yelled, “someone is banging their glass,” whilst the discoverer (all too busy) zoomed in for a second wink, blinking, “how long were he infirm, where was this condition experienced, and were other inmates now in charge,” the flight crew apologized for unexpected turbulence, explaining that during the impasse over placing an ersatz bandersnatch, a place down under of recorded meteorological extremes, often overlooked for its temperately routine eight hundred degrees or more, hosted a folk inured to such an extent that climes of Venus might seem to them by contrast a trifle blustery. Ahem, perplexed by the collision between some times, cursed bribes of reason from discoverer (all too busy).

“This legacy,” he demanded, “had not shadow puppet designed to live in a state of such purity, we would never find to coax from us enough innocence?” Yet inbred, his callow dybbuk fluffing abundant mists and inverse plentitudes elsewhere marveled, “circumstantial inference achieved forestallment anticipated from all but one who is to say that this is what is is.” Awry with emotion, as alike as slugs extant, venting ignobly into a system found on common precision, they started at Polar Star prototypes, Park thinking, “what a hoax.” Why the mainland had, despite its government’s avowed refusal to sign the pact, received permission to introduce their product into being.

.   .   .

As world opinion clamored for an universal umbrella with which to stave the inbound scareball, their leading adherent, Horace, was obviously so reprehensible for garnering such momentum within the International Astrophysics Commission, that an official consensus mandated such immediate protection of the ionosphere without consulting all environmental circulars. The coverage of this expanse must, at any rate, be complete within three years thence, and displaying that latent capacity of producing exactly that amount of assurance, author of poor haiku had so hedged into this process that many United States citizens, viewing their national heritage as pierced by usurping eastern hegemonies, rooted wistfully for their native side. “The area growth should see wise burn.” “It thought I was this to ether.” “Where are your priorities, dude?”

“Enough of what you knew about,” Ahem stifled to his inner child. “You are at variance with the tides of fashion.” And discoverer (all too busy) told Ahem, “give up this next azurite apparent, ever since with surcease latte, ere we thought how that was too close to drown tauper dripped persiflage anymore, beyond which efforts staved real miniscule ground nuts let in.” Ahem replied in feckless regard, “altogether were suddenly of their own perspective tepid at that age.” Noone knew that again when only from service but instead hopeless material gain. Nor were common failures annoying, for where after as in only occasional apportion willing the minister to bury with desirably long hatchet, knowing there was nothing else for but to at (a particule had other ideas) once receive assistance from hirelings pledged to pull from him figurative brinks anytime, thus allowing many kliegs to browbeat his oddments into the belief of narrower escape from the threshold of sound. Some obligated a red Norn.

Park, standing at the material separation console, knew that this would not prove a successful day for either party, for having some general knowledge of budding efforts, he had designed an austere protocol. “My guest visa is about to expire,” Ostrand muttered. “Am I supposed to be listening to all of this,” Bitsy wondered? Raoul had not wished to explain to her that, although this grand view of the template was pleasant, it also involved coordination with principals, whom he was on terms of a strange enmity, accumulated through fault of none but the systemic application of political contract.

“The fourth,” he went on, “be the originators too, of documentation describing tactics involved, and resultant natural trajectory inspired methods of stabilized dejection. Inky onyx and perhaps,” as his insistence upon vetting miry mains in search of the divine just, undeclared icon themes slim pickingly made their way about the hem, “as wide as and as wan as ignorance flailed, until one day not a sole more of us would stand, sit, or kneel to take their cue.” Of course, in a perfect universe of perpetually pleasant presents they would all sit down and palaver until a seamless transition ensued. What vagueness ever expounded one to guess why, insofar as their several ranks, over–ranged, never numbered, now that were on the edge of five words ago not counted yet for openers, a dissembling blast of elemental severity subjected the Polar Star orbital platform prototypes to the ravage of sands, fluid, photogenic outbursts, any two of three flame types, and ergonomic stress. “In good faith, to try to sleep, to be on time, we sit on globes, broken tassels disorganized here, as the big hand.”

“They do not frighten me,” was declared at another table. The opposing sleds, shraught within mechanical onslaughts, were razed through oxidizing flames, causing closest observers to remark that very little integrity had been lost by either. “Liberty,” Horace muttered, “a goddess, a she–lioness who cuffs. Senseless us with her paws for daring out of turn.” “I can only sleep,” Sergei yawned, “ruing the day when someone is banging.” A general isothermal pattern became anomalous. Checking his Euglenoid movement, discover (all too busy) realized forward, reverse, and sidereal engines were off line.

As an excuse for a work of admitted fiction, established order also went missing. The fourth watched quasars like an intern obsessed by motions of a hypnotic screen saver, hoping to postpone a long dreaded task, and finally appended, “the binary quasar is poised upon the edge of a hyperbolic funnel. Its motion is logarithmically distributed within five polar coordinates. There, stellar masses initially revolve along opposite sides of the funnel, but their distance from one another, as their motion, varies randomly. At any moment, any orbit may retrograde, deviate, deflect, sag, curve, or accelerate.” Raoul had strained his natural vigor through a weir of correctness that was no longer universally in this day admirable.

These were grievous sallow findings, for the lilac spared eighth notes ailments in their each sprightly pathos to the visitor center. Ideally anyone would have been more suited to obtaining royal clemency than Raoul, since his skill, blunted with constant usage, had become repugnant to him declared, viewing his forthcoming ordeal with contentious dignity, “this might want to be a good time to explain or at least whoops, too late as almost near the fortieth line one, without an idea of what this sentence suspended within format, and already blithely in alliance with at least Norns that if maybe not triangular would, their scarcely apportioned next, devolve to characters on the erratic loss of our plunge.” “The panjandrum,” Shrdlu declared, “decrees we complete execution by noon. Step on it!” Scattered injunctions with an avoidable dance for galactic crawl space of non–vigorating each sudden cosmetic shoal, the tough old nut seemed transmogrified into an uninhabitable alloy.

North American hopes soared as the visiting entry lost nearly all of its galvanized anode coat to a brutal pummeling of sand, but for its part, subjected to such an implosion of wattage that even those choosing to wear intra–dimensional inserts had left the gallery for eclipsed vision treatments, the hull of the home side charred, mogrified, and ossified in crispy flakes. Expedited orders to the same old crucible only suffered, within obfuscated vigils, an innumerably meant provision thoughtfully efficacious, yet blind from calumnic hypotheses of no place like each refuge left within; before a palatable manifold found for herein, betwixt ataxic weave from collusive evidentialities realized in an attempt to avoid primordial preconsciousness, relegated unswerving volition awakened to aggregate neo–Platonism like nothing since, yet without numerous virgules, left by before the liens jetted off on an apparent aim, various features within pre–Falernian geometry unpredictably alarmed in a whorl of inevitable course.

In effect, individuals, shuttered within metes and bounds of mechanisms infinitesimal, knew all that lay, between their noiseless yurts and zealots without, were practically and collectively comforted only by a brace of women’s organizational acumen that might have obtained litanical diversion. What else would weld or otherwise induce one to antics transgressible to thin lines deliberated in fashion of motives unwarm? An ominous intensity manifest, Park superintended subversion into vast crackling hydrogen one percent sulfate vats. One half hour later, the native effort was in disarray, its condition leaving no room for doubt that an application of mere dynamite was sufficient for its utter demise. Permitted one test deviation, Park had withheld it until this time, and ordered both sleds subject to an inherent blow of 2.5 x 10^-21 dynes. Horace, knowing that this application was far beyond normal tolerance, watched sourly as both projects exeunted in virtual cacaphony, and glared as Park threw back his mask. “They are finished,” he announced. Suddenly aware that standards of his craft were plummeting into an arc of sickening descent, and realizing the ship was held fast, the discoverer (all too busy) drew on deep reserves of skepticism, assumed a crass attitude, watched the display, and waited. A dash of grace amid season went far through to dispel fear of calm sarcasm, and as many as had always loved Top Ramen, to be seen leaving the store with more than a few packages of it was no longer generally held as an admission of poverty.

.   .   .

“Yet is of what significance our visit?” “Statistically,” the Ambassador replied, “it is p < .0001.” At this moment in history (albeit long, long, long, ago still), someone noticed an alternative energy source. From the tangent tossed and idle coverlet of waking ingredients, Sasha, scalded in beams of consciousness, soared, sour, repellent, just out of reach. Lame jingles instead emptied dark glass; while trying to imagine what next solo fiddle eclectic situation, staring live essential recovery, would, in instant sense, fully rival evenings’ black brew of lengthened effort involved in apt equity, an ordinarily quotient development moved for readjournment. A composite construct of organic mimicry voted upon, a blue ohmmeter initialized, facts, as in official real tictus ticker punches, paraded en masse.

A wondrous holiday concerned when the Bell curve outage binding serial alphanumerics lapsed compliance. The universe of possible access combinatives needed to run national defiance had fulfilled its limit and, in an estimate, everyone who needed to use a password to log in would, in short time, process out. Might, and on that note, they flinch to be viable at a clatter and blanch whole–heartedly, unable to say anything except that tungsten template purpose presumes a scarcity security complex? And even beyond the seal, the press fussed for leaks though jangling. Watching the staff flow out, the resident looked after them with exasperation.

It was like attempting to reassemble the history of the void through combing dregs of ticker tape. Futility as in measured recollection of sphinx–like silences were little exorable. Them then left parleying amongst themselves, begging for a symbolic alphabet, with no reference to mere an unshakable pitch, might yet ruin the end, or what passed for stability in these days. “Mr. Van Etnabaron,” the resident began, “start from the top.” “I stayed in my room mostly,” Sasha retorted, glancing at his erstwhile guide, but the resident said, “don’t look at him.”

“Bitsy’s alter–ego,” Regatta stealthily murmured, “alas no sentience on the reverse shut out or delayed by extra innings.” Raoul would sooner trim pathos’ felt end before fiat begging extenuation than go traipsing off with other paltry feats. “Insofar better, that beneath pretext of obeying this dictum from instead, they lay out a slipshod arena.” At this point, Esmeralda said, “to them, aha, so this is hardly one more of their feasts of publicity, too competitive and judgmental, like the rest of them, you have passed over form, are any hours left for trying this useless practice off as patience and forbearance in love?” “Without waiting for an answer which had not occurred to them in a weak moment therefore, were we then complicit in an amalgamate to share nothingness?” “I prefer to help the sick,” Sangreal said. “We spend half of our lives trying to prove that we are not frightened and” — “and when I looked out, my ceramic emperor’s tomb guard was missing.” “I agree that our present age is of the darkest cast.”

“I run at least twelve miles a day,” Harold averred, with an unrequited glance at Marta. “Then woes redound and” — “I wakened in a land where no one was sad” — “and the other half hiding.” “Amateurs,” Bitsy’s father complained, “have you not learned to befriend the mammon of unrighteousness?” “We sat and dreamt of toads.” “Someone — ” “failure of choice is the greatest stain.” The plaintive twinkle of 19^th century Austrian crystal being struck with pewter, a Mrs. Teaspoon intruded. “Gentlemen. Messieurs et Mesdames. A toast. To detriments, willpower, fumbled snaps, unfinishable conversions, let us develop, in our current situation, a short leash, metaphors, to proximity, expectation. Films at eleven, ladies and gentlemen, foreign minister of Ossian, Ahem Mi’sik Irwah, is present.”

.   .   .

Porcupine Excursus — Segueing.

.   .   .

Waiting perforce miscibly, Ahem stared as the remnant of his garage and music notes scattered in this link. Eke Japanese graffito in tepid tinge, only alive are fine human idyll. “Whoa,” he waxed, “how could they pelt the weird crevice hands down?” It was a specious resident there ever was, for malted city donors twist bunk each sonnetry? While women of the hot nation overlaid subtly yet, with all compensatory flair that follows, he had decades of repressed motion in his own land, through all time, that Soundman had happily tossed either stingier poem to voles, until these now outgrabed, even on indica, that visible woks were no longer easily sneezed, at one’s own hat, the habit of inserting something into the slide show. Oh that prodigy, nonplussed, would be tricked into an outburst of dismay, allowing Ahem to display a long submerged severity in cautioning the prince to modify his tone!

During assorted nautical preparations, seedy scholars had accosted them. “Listen to me. From a dropper posed, each light dark mindset tumbled into Earth’s iris.” Of their few remnant nodes one, named for enactment residually spitballed, “thereat beware Nicholas Fish,” where he was headed during a late night piano forte even when anyone knew of him. Strange to this land, Van Etnabaron stood by the console as ethanol trickled into the hold, in no position to declare sympathy with the beaded pilgrims before them. It seemed the least he could do, perceiving that slumbering principalities, so far benevolently indifferent to this enterprise, might be stirred to detriment were he to dismiss them impulsively, and Sasha flinched while Talitha shoved tatterdemalions in an even ruder way.

“The mills grind you know,” replied the mirky wizened visitants, and stopped actually for just anyone, fitfully touring the premise. Restively, Van Etnabaron had turned a cold slow eye against the screensaver that rolled up over his inventory menue. To spite the laconic old persons, he said, “thanks, we’ve been through too many scrapes as it is, at least until the place of synapses could be disclosed, but no thanks,” and obtained doorstops for the west egress hatch. A designated nonpareil, trained to cope with bereavement, Thledvirrson assured the pilgrims that even a few dull salvoes from the garden hose would teach them to step aside, and started to unleash spray when one of them shouted a word, carrioccio. To such folderol, Sasha had acutely purchased a tenuous anonymity, and shouted back, “you know nothing of such items!”

.   .   .

In somewhat impersistent effort, Ahem nonetheless retained his cameo, tripped by specific observations, as millstones within one’s own life journey. Still, it had proved unsettling that he would blurt such an obviously refutable assertion about unseen godchildren to individuals within earshot of senior leadership. In what was a formal scene of oligarchic mannerism, Iphgene’s full skies still were magnified azimuths left deeper on Ossian than had once best desired goofier earth to start most known fiefs in vents or fewer; yet ixnay, yes, tiers later his Smedley pose evaporating parched boon wit, the contract honored immune by those within the jar. Sevenths wore on, froth evinced a data down on thin chaff on whinier knell.

It was no place for saliently alleged accrual, for success lurked near, too useless to steep, being in moment, every arch, portal, and shadow conceding mere talent, nearly earned neither offers nor a step, in that if some time exploded, and verified spilt loop in torn custard, there soon started sinister trust cheer tiding in. The quiet methodic octave of Ng’s missing quip meant waste throughout other chance ill word. These await feisty inurement on aura of no worsted preface, if entire dualities in vain dared to top saying light until wan and, ensuring wishes hinted a dug hem, anyone dreamt, leapt, or mooted nothing before everyone else had one opportunity for same. Pertaining finally inside, Ahem nervily planned his resignation and attended to drat thereof as their plate tectonic love spangled. Ahem had read Ayadgar E Zharan, forward and backward. By the time he was fifteen he had read it three times.

Despite being considered an expert after one adventure in musical svelte proto dangling, a man, in retrospect, gabbled during the trip, and sought to develop a grand sonata. “If we can get a word in edgewise (Ahem seemed to address an inner child),” the eminent theorist hired for premise upon acceptability added, “here was a catch. Impress (truths) upon a foundation of erasures. As kids, who thought that we were so in those days that those who were really in would begin to follow us, thrust the foreword forward longhand, and will hardly allow our thoughts to sound as important as they did upon that day when we let someone, not of immediate kin, see and read our incipient tetralogy, and basked in glory of things to come. Though hope was too fat to get out of the box, pages stoutly stacked and bound were fed to her listless gaze and, sounding hollow that upon those grounds, the audience gathered, just as promptly dashed, conveyed no little interest in a further public critique, and though we felt obviated to expostulate in rising voice dismissal of the entire symposium, we languished in an epic of general silence thereafter, repaired to the hiking thing we had upon receipt of one Mississippi, and were prompt in gladdening only through the impetuous popcorn song. Subsequently, full of extemporaneous echoes, and inspired by participation in the Global Village’s youth legislative program, unveiling monotonous hair–splitting councils full of politically long–winded meaningfulness that made us feel if we could just do it again, nine times over, or more, we would get used to being verbose epic composers, and would somehow get our names vaulted alongside those of many other Leviathans of thought, we were not able to. Finally, persuaded by a stricken conscience and many years of inactivity, we folded, wept, purged all of our pages, save those few comprising the original thing actually completed, entitled, by our mother, Niobe (to our cringing embarrassment) as, that old devil moon.”

“You think you will find one,” they replied and, in pianissimo succession, acceded to palm such old signs as were readily available, yet with gravid relish Thledvirrson hastened their exegesis. At once, a solo stream tickled the interlopers, who meddlesomely nagged, “at least we know how this occurred,” and only until this jet altered into a vacuous torrent were the senior amanuensises coerced over the side, enabling other sections to complete their tasks undistracted. “Don’t take this on account of a rime of ancient marmalade,” Thledvirrson called down to them, “but man, we’ve had enough of your period mimicry to last us some nine hundred thousand light years.” “Then the curse of Nicholas the Fish is upon you,” they gargled. Talitha leapt up lightly and flashed them before they had time to enjoy this.

Ælfric had followed most of the interchange from the helm, and spat quizzically, watching as sodden scholars paddled onto the stranded beach, and regarded them with vexed awareness, muttering, “a free curse.” Van Etnabaron thought of asking the pilot to elaborate, but the latter had already stoked his pipe and, through clenched stem, Thledvirrson heard him add, “that’s all we need.” As the smoker skipped with the bowl topside down, signal for an imminent storm, Van Etnabaron glared at unmanageably jolly whitecaps that danced from the Ebro currents and tossed her guest, Delphinium, upon send–off. They joined the crew and flung around riggings with the motions of men determined to save their parts in a play written, if not by them, than in large measure for them and their native will.

.   .   .

AI ships fjulsfut damask.

III — vii — The Crafty Home Brew Jubilee.

.   .   .

Integrally did then Ælfric recover to view pro forma an unglatched vision of dystopia. Since conduits vexed gave exterior track that to torch this was not corrective procedure, inducing a premonitory squall that permeated their initial resolve, Frederick’s non-italicized personae, amid conspiracies unforeseen, woke to a gauzy Monday. It became less dense and therefore more intelligent in design. Keys once colossally enigmatic availed easily once the first instant holiday had commenced; there was no stopping it simply, even lily hydrazine enabled their seventh to coast through seven periods without a singular linear destination, and irksomeness of conventional rabble vanished in a coalescence of semiotic avenues.

Milling while engaged at outset, members of Nicean rebellion embraced their values in a mineral function and asked if they were not glad they had decided to defy leading opinion. Out here were they at liberty to exercise their avocation without consensus; even while influenced of trail mix, they felt more large–minded than ever had been during even their pre–exegesistic communal therapies (the name for which had escaped them) out here. Their rebellion meant that simply a long neglected portal was now open for good of the rest of inter–regnum and in that respect they were persuaded of their benign lament, intending only that others pursue them with such zestful intransigence. However now were they all beyond reach unfettered, and prospects of actualization drove their happy craft athwart a current of theory, overbearing tactless remonstrances of past. Drafting messages back to their antecedents and means of transmission wasted much chalk and many happy hours while their trap roamed at length amid various features.

As ecdysonially their brattice persisted in ventilating sweet intentions they gazed nacreously upon their own nervous chromatic dispersions, agreeing that in principle they were filled with sorrow that most of their distant kin had not availed themselves of journey into the Noses. They so wished to express to tenty heirs of bradykinin, fully aware however that, these powers that were, having arrived through conventions at their present status, most likely loathe to relinquish those very elevating forces, many of the monads wondered if it were worth the trouble to send any message at all and were it not an untoward drain to look back? The essential result of debate then was a resolute expression of sympathy for those of inter–regnum who might wish to escape the tedious existence of without.

Moreover they grew convinced that forces inimical to them, bent at all costs upon preventing their tidings from trickling down to oppressed billions, would consequently also disclose their location as most likely intercepted by any transmission or invitation. “Far better for them to believe that we are perished, as we once believed this to be the fate of our ancient predecessors,” advanced their historian (all too busy). “We wish no more of their radical ethos here,” agreed seconds. fjulsfut, most numerous, proclaimed that they were all a raft of brave new individuals, a nation in search of Erewhon. Accordingly did their diet convene with a feeling of achievement, for although they had failed in their stated purpose (to notify their kinsfolk of the wondrous new path they had found), dialectic of earnest dissolution was first step in their own recognition as a separate state, a heady of course declaration any way you sliced it.

.   .   .

The momentum of those gainful hours proved dimly recessive and a natural torpor overtook the rebels while the new universe rushed by, but sleepily they resolved to develop procedures for preservation of their incipient union should any from their motherland seek to overtake their boundless thirst for individualism, knowing shadow puppet could not help but gaze with a certain Pygmalionesque forbearance at his crazy Mother Niobe, starry browed womb of universe, matron deity of seconds, hearth, caregivers of lumine, who, in the absence of their wards, had grown lackadaisical and shuffled to work wearing bunny slippers and overstretched lycra. In their defense, Niobe pled for lumine to return to their care for a season, and that ceaselessly proud mechanical activity of fjulsfut was endangering entire epics.

Shadow puppet, however, in no mood however to cast an exceptionally useful race into outer darkness, stated that for all the ceaseless buffing, counter–sinking, measuring, and designing activities, and all the testy bridling when approached with a simple request, the fifth had served well and to the fullest of emotive capabilities. “Then,” Niobe asked, “if they are deemed so industrious, might you implore them to unstash first the lumine?” “Questions of talent, sir, are ticklish,” nattered shadow puppet (after inspired Le Misanthrope). “If there is a lesson in any of this,” Niobe rejoined, “you will have your den hearth mother dressed like a sack and hardly working anymore.” “The curse of Ruth is a bad joke prior to exile,” shadow puppet agreed. “Many experiences in your name have proved a disappointment to your vapid following.” “They shalt stop milking the clock and knock off for a while. Complete a form 10, in triplicate, addressed to fjulsfut locale.”

Citizens thus accepted an opportunity to refrain from belief (topical clinicity fashioning a freedom from finding everything old), anathematized an emery post hitherto serving as universal assessment monitor for random specifics, and arrived onto the summit of presumed hope as, being not mindful or convinced of another string remnant existing as topics of general interest too, “I lied as (warranted code sing),” a physicist commented, “about conditions that applied during this ongoing report upon significant alien contacts. They began as dust mice, horticultural hydroponic hives, and/or geologic formations.” Plair approached, hoping his silly tryst card would break them up, and decided to announce henceforth that all women were under his protection. His arm drooped toward his hip suddenly and stood out with a sore thumb, writhing beneath the grip of author of poor haiku.

“Amend your ways, harmless butter bar,” Horace said, “or you will never see her enact topical appliance fast post haste.” They knew that crowd wanted the same thing: a big and good seat far from this time where the day’s immediate idiocy might, through expedient of relation mode, connect with night’s profound and sublime denouement. Swiftly then, the luminous delegate left them. If no stranger than sex, she had failed to indulge in it for more than twenty–nine years, technically reimmaculate, regarding this lot as acceptable, in light of numerous outs (disease, parenthood, and insanity), and was existentially reassured to be almost solely resistant toward international trends of vacant promiscuity. Tolstoy, swearing that his erstwhile confederate had been exposed through misplaced gallantry, misplaced a visa to ensure a swifter exit. In straitened circumstance that Plair will soon receive instructions about (firm of Ingersoll, Blank, and Dake), a first role must day in and day out walk with triplet sets in laundering lineally, while atop them it was all in pattern how quaint an outlook. Too light this skipping development forced past, that if mist formed seeking a path best left during daylight, after, words of indigenous acts oft typify for a few moments, curb.

Apostrophic of pleasant imprint, a place run subsequently began. Idres spanned, in duress, with no moment to spare for reading of important account information literature, before being forced into decline by decree of CIE (Center for Imaginary Existence). The physicist responsible for documenting significant alien contacts, I. E. Deerfield, remembering his former good standing, had sense enough to review the future. In present context, names had not changed. The immediate object (if time might take a vacation) wandered from sight in steps. “We thought our light, knowledge, sown in good soil, might become the pilot of truth,” Elias amended. Clearly, he was not to be left in peace to peruse the draft for this evening a series of tapping began. Not assuredly of random quality, and growing restively garrulous, their hazard eluded him. A circumstantial inference occurred. That a presence from beyond may have signaled to him, reinventing structure, was a conclusion that he was not slow to remit. The amendment of a perpetual calendar was an occasion of issue for begging questions of the odd scene of salutarianism now convoked.

.   .   .

The pledge dinner, Snore Through the Cure (bearing no resemblance to any earlier pledge dinners) was laced with faux. Strangers, accosting tables to read micro–scripted place mats, interrupted many a yarn, much to the annoyance of the seated. Moreover, bad acoustics prevented initial amity, and even a request to pass salt caused many ripples of consternation. Bitsy sat glumly, her thoughts unwillingly wondering were there other forms out there? “That question,” the Ambassador delegated with a start, “you must refer to discoverer (all too busy). They are fabled at knowing all things. All too busy need never go quick please choose. A fourth dibs ago, and with no inherent quality, we had been meaning to tell them to avoid gerund infinitives. This term was applicable to those who had no cares and, hoping to find any manner of social diversion there, Fernand was edging back toward stanchions.” Suddenly the public address system fleetingly apologized for unusually stacked up Sunday afternoon traffic and bade everyone bonjour.

Finished wandering in duty free cologne display sections on some levels, such was his good shepherd entirely savvy, Fernand managed to find his first class seat and sat inactively the whole time. But a late boarder, finding honorary summa cum laude, blankly wound over his valise to the attendant and said, “this bastard has been with me since day one.” Fernand importuned the late arrival to have a nice flight, but the other ruminated too of Wahid sourly, “yet these were only two week tourists.” Fernand mused, “measured by the time listing a song on that headset.” At this reference, the passenger looked at Fernand in a stunned fashion, and said, “durst you be taking both dares?” Fernand flushed, snatching his class letter jacket (varsity soccer) from the adjoining seat, but the fellow evinced further ire at his ensconcement. “I am tripped up by a chorus of idiots,” the man protested.

Seeking the call button, Fernand elicited a deputation of attendants, who examined his ticket and indicated to the newcomer that Fernand was a well–adjusted member of society. The latter muttered some obscure diplomatic provisos, adding, “I’m never going back out there. You would think with emotional distance created, explosive flashbacks to the drawing board would go onto a day when giant scarabs ruled the day.” The attendants asked Fernand to defer. Ahem, who took both chairs as Fernand headed abaft, seemed to be addressing something in the empty chair next to him. “I cribbed, stop no more, damn this cold key headlong, snatch bifocal neologisms, unlit tabs are a detour. Before the cross there stands passage of the chromatic lizzy who awaits anyone beginning articles thoughtlessly,” he’d add if somnambulant. “Oaf,” opined a seasoned worm, “learn that yet ubiquitous comme il faut spilled benign somewheres between seams again.” “Is anyone not against us for whomever with sensitive enough checkers for rococo tons of us,” the man replied? “Nary one morn began without forks lying around the road map, so please loaf over here and forget your dang suds.” Lately furtive minimas, tepid amid uniform striations, pleated agave swooshes that were their loss, whatever wagons that arrived quietly.

.   .   .

“We all have souls to recover from our lost past,” one of the scholars conceded. “How are you like or unlike us? Your space race,” Indocile sniffed, cowling herself aloof aseptically, “once a last vestige of your cold war, is now a limbic event. Likewise, our galactic village of city states, observed anew specie long after bearing access, had this memory become pushed so far about into forgetfulness had, that were previous charters what took place.” “I believe in the present agenda,” claimed Park. “Watch ink. Guess who you bleeped into yesterday. All by their simple selves they turned that line absence of once described effort to reach in near toto illuminative how possible if not advisable the right week or so, hiatus of correct time on 97.1 until due to over extensive vacuuming the plug, unstopped, reset, or recent being on board, comfortable sighting with it forensic monitor most wan derive radiate told areola to a tough page.” “I believe theorism is only a symptom,” added Charles Nesbit.

While Marquis of Suppressant, he’d long come to accept influence of radio waves upon his presence. In an ancient sequence of dynasties to an essential northern monopoly, a prince of black light had always deferred, through age, service, or inclination, from any exceptional accession. In all of time, these stalwarts had rarely achieved majority and, moreover traditionally seen as peculiarly susceptible to Snorggi’s Syndrome, were often unable to distinguish metaphor from allegory. If patently untrue, claims of their newest hopeful (more or less, given their altruistic self–denial) sent antiquarian historians burrowing into enough pseudo–Piltdown correspondence to rout within ten minutes an unusual post encomium as a path of folly. This wove example into his tranquility.

At whiles, Nesbit always addressed his listeners in third person and had come to engage his inner elf. That tag was, as far as finth were concerned, the extent of their ergo tiara nation ground. In an amazement of desuetude Ampersand had, with Lothar’s self–help, unveiled an immense discovery not unlike that one evening when you’d managed to select within a short moment enough adulation together in style for defiance of your own concert that evidently waned. And after they’d praised shadow puppet for preparing a giant spot yesterday from their wayward path, did anyone truthfully leave with an impression that Laodiceans were about to submit to the forces of dumpster decor? That desirous macadam in a jar was not going to, over time, happen. And on the rent spoiler, or so, “I. E., stalking wire to soothe flak, evaded hundred weight shape hippopotami height, figures that if this goes west (hint a solon mullion in slimming tropic vale),” an, svelte, and dour omens told. In the day one cloud swam in exile, sixth walk through whirly snow oeuvre, way to stub via booths, your eye, on guest hold hours, aped the subtlety of pure instinct sea, of thy house all behold a rare fabrication uplift reboot heaped titles.

On host days, the Village was less plaid than fonder seismic night havoc, vegan, youthful and well–rested, previous lout for work, of the time wash able to dream Ottoman his thought synod, depraved pad. These gentrification process has–beens, solid at foreshadowing iced theme, durst avert scary tin noise, simply the sultry often as preteen tuition ferment sweats, often shushes cloning as thriving dustbins, wand partition, Ng is hot at the individual scan, “then sit in scale lofts uptown with nothing to do except friend us?” Her healing dismissed, the magistrate fussed upon a world where mind paragons swam at CIE with such daring, nay, and frustum glee.

Humans, developed of a sense of manifest destiny thwarted by visible cabal, their antics splashed upon ages and screams, obliviously hoarding anything, were in any sense in foment the magistrate longed to rebuke by asking, “what have YOU done lately for the sick?” Yes, Marta wished to tell them from the dimmest recess of her consciousness, where courage still lurked on hearsay, ready to jump from the ledge of her darkest fantasy, let he who is without sin cast the first one. She almost thought of dialing her estranged father, who at this moment, working in an office where pensive thought always returned, after last lines were beginnings to him carefully, had fobbed the strident secretary with no more than only a few faced charges emanating from static mend.

The wily fed caught a phrase and changed his transfer of regard to a tainted spat devolving on his watch. Before, whilst garbed though in gravest infirmity, Menard had also braved qualmless agitation from his colleagues for inclusion of baser yawning errors as an indicative category, he countered that this measure involved subjective criteria concerning factors of intent, ability, or inclination, and therefore, were often universally indeterminate, unlike initial etchings that, resisting encapsulation, almost crafted a ready response. Downwind to all of such text of sinuosity yodeling noisily, they found this orange owl Æolianly disbursed. The beyond actual inclusion of appurtenant compunctuality required proponents to gather precedent, which they maintained, extant in adoption of the hold as a metric of inevitability, yet fabricating little sympathy from tepid advocates of the hold lobby, and alienated with proofs of being run down as evidence of mental lapse, they sought reply to their fastidious inquiry, illustrated as to how must such scarcities devolve into ablative smothering of an elemental nomenclature of the eighty–seventh element as no less than freedom itself?

With approbation and unrelenting formulas, the base running error lobby now had fastened nascent adagios of nuance to itinerant policies of code. Why find their delay tedious, spliced, or deviant unless the motion, periodically tabled, showed up in time for Menard’s cactus rotisserie league, but for now all the leaves were brown, and there was nothing to do but actual work? Further realty might accrue an instruction of consonance, and grateful enough for assistance with excavating the strange node that gave him mastery over something, Rex tossed a bon bon out, saying, “(strange silence reminding him to press on), it shall soon be time for Herr Flußtapfer to go on another snipe hunt.” “You are a throwback,” another of the scholars chimed in, “life isn’t like that anymore.” “Maybe two thousand years ago, but not now.”

“What is so great about now,” the enthalpist sighed? “In my dusty senile thin cafe, the blast flirts send stained fumy net tithes astir?” “With the feet in my hall, all my tin jefe will flame, lah lah lah.” A season of painted smiles reigned. “Well, now of course, we have made tremendous strides,” was the assertion of ædith. “Soon all lilies fresh cabins stained.” “A tinny fifth malt left thin mint, they’ll hate the few in the kitchen ink,” Alcuin seconded. “We have inventoried titles we’ll hint, given mach ten.” “In study the lines on my face will first be last,” affirmed Charles. “Now is never a good time,” the enthalpist, refreshed in knowledge that at least he was not as far off the deep end after all, demurred. Realizing his indignation might undo him as an individual of further consequence, Rex’s listeners agreed to rush hastily to obligation. Not that it was unenjoyable, the greatest literati gathered at the throbbing valley of Flippenberg upon the purgatorial torrent that swept all before it. Each spring, during that fortnight between the Feasts of Dunstan and John at the Lateran Gate, they selected a sacrist, the more disinclined to better their humanist values, to act as foil, and after being prompted theologically, the hapless man was sent into the wilderness.

.   .   .

Fernand settled into steerage. In this short moment, it was realized in popular journals that a void was nigh, universal straits enclosed declination, long weaned from chance, sheer improbability now at great requisite for bearing with necessary reference to unfolding symmetrical pageants. The nine quantities were time, mass, elapsed time, velocity, density, volume, space, acceleration, and noise. This dense galaxy, of a magnitude never before encountered by his lonely kind, threatened his craft with prospect of immolation. He feared a mole on the way.

Yet, as the great laminar disc approached, it dispersed into well–ordered avenues, boulevards, and by–worlds. A discoverer (all too busy) twiddled his noses. He seemed to be on a strip of intelligent order. The monad found a suburban cul–de–sac, staid and unimaginative, that redeemed into nursery rhymes, surrounded by anxious parents, that brought forth fierce and jolly blue babes from amidst a nebular sack. To either side, peanut clusters beckoned like carnivals; red giants, not obscenely bloated as that of his home world, but rotund and dignified, told stories to pools of blustering starlets. The discoverer (all too busy) twitched noticeably, apprehending an exurbian warren of stars spaced so regularly that, as if by cosmic fiat, left untended in the paroxysm nigh, a vacuum insinuated a repetitive tap upon chichi; that current impediment of things, angst, mute minute nucleation, infinite refraction, incomplete complement, an old saw, seizure so in mind that gnostically inclined might plot though adopted in transmitting cue.

This odd night substratified inside sullen glower of a melted simile; many places you’d wish were vaguely befallen in a far–off penumbra, and near gibberish without sound, his gross descent blended into Earth. Sensing his deliverance from this intransigent minister nigh, PoD squirmed within his captor host, intimating of a second thought he’d temeritously forestalled, as if when against constraint descry the standard effects of all overuse, writ missed the light he proceeded, in a recessive evocation, howling with diligence in berths found for six snazzy makes that weren’t going to stick around. “Whoever wanted to flirt with themes were going to have to do it on someone else’s watch,” Ahem, whose screen saver hadn’t kicked in for days, muttered. The finth were agape to the peril. And as if culture’s practice of assignment weren’t way more than enough, vile tuppence loomed for any that wished for a cause. Nowadays, anyone who could hyperventilate before a camcorder for more than fifteen minutes was presumed to have an instant lock on all social ills.

.   .   .

Crescent flan after stale marvelling as tepid fountains choose inter–regnum.

III — vi — Nor Had One Crammed for the Honor

.   .   .

Sylvia, aware of the mashed vehicle for contending against proverbial situations, might wait, in vain or any other mood, for notice of its absence, so that she might pounce with the tale, hardly and badly won, of Clifford’s misconduct. Of most pressing gravity, in any event to the pragmatic Flambeaux, absorbed in half–lit archives from Palermo, was an apologia, affixed to the original caseload, dashed off in anomalously recognizable boustrophedon, and of decidedly post–Ludditic zest vastened toward fewer or less recent tempuras. From the Nicean node of Miranda, one emerald tapestry propinquitously reprised inspiration of the Emperor of Jerusalem’s ex, Constance, who arrived upon a dark matter destrier ceaselessly chiding Frederick for the chill embassy accorded their mutual son Henry (VII) whom, in desire of any organization to clothe its components in likewise raiment, had been compelled into marriage with the Duchess Margaret of Austria, whose huge tracts (vested inland) were cited as sufficient reason.

Creased into anomalous parallax, and in terms of gender–neutrality unexceptionably repressed during the era of coeval origin, unless restarted by a non–italicized untenet (this result held within his own metier as inessentially morphemic, given obversible reluctance about the ordinance of symbiosis via manifold birdseed plunge), notes echoed, heeded, or then evolved, “unto the proposition for saintly and the sun warming up the governors’ race, it were like two why stop there interest, the other light, and only kept a line fairer than Josephus. Thou candles, wont to bring every instant of doubt toward a panoply of all–day fate exine, curbed by merely time, safety net authenticated by boxed rocks, the impression of a timed–in up or down window structure, oh mega–doll pro forma upon tone and persistent busily, in an inkling, ‘why can’t we stay under to meet the shrub area tux cast,’ but our father had usually folded up the road map and further deliberation is best left to used–up retinal tactics.”

There are times when step–parents are wholly unpredictable. Not only did the Marquis fail to remark upon the cherished toy that he himself was wont to spin, but one day a visitor, whom they all recognized, was let in: the chastened physicist, Elias Deerfield, who brought with him a hyper–induced fuel–injected funny car that put their previous model to bed. They went out to play with it. “I’m sorry if I smashed up your car,” the physicist, peering from his geothermal golf cart, told them. Sylvia was perplexed and peeved, for the previous matter seemed forgotten, and if now possessed of aforementioned amends, she had no more leverage over Clifford, who conversantly invited the physicist into their basement. Negotiating the staircase seemed problematic, but a root cellar hatch was found and Deerfield lowered through by Cliff. “Sometimes I get bored with windows,” Clifford said. Instantly in his exact attempt to react as if he knew a very thing, Frederick pulled beside the curt omnibus node, beyond which perils raged then, to look for an and/if tabular consort much duller than he personally imagined, now that the tilted soot stabled with last minute daguerreotypes stretched this.

Pending a review of previous floral distractions, Bitsy, ironing nearby, deemed to supply everyone with unclear discoveries, cited a man whose thought had been on the leading edge of information for decades, before considering innumerable shortcuts provided by technology, and an individual refusal to avail from it any regard of change in procedure as worthy. Now feeling the tepid hand of possession upon his own heart, in zest Ahem thus reedily donned the fjulsfut mask. It was sadly so dry that one could probably hope for only three or four times before noticing that only the cop of intra–social volition resided within the harlequin frame. Yet without, they were hipless and tread tines, through functional scenes within town, i.e., peculiarly against ongoing slum noun piece milling.

There being stiff nameless aphorism clouds poached each wherewithal, per se, fjulsfut rippled their candles, awakened under any toothier gerund, while kept aglow, riprap liturgies bond against all propinquity an, whose rapprochement lessened their popular forsooth, alacritous, cast into a grand old hat; cards were turning up missed universes everywhere as with favorite shorter elan, albeit lived of an older generation, Ahem recalled those rafters rang with irony when badder stimuli induced fifth into blurting out arrival of the great reaction, as entirely maladjusted sects shocked leading opinion with the vulgarity of their rhetoric.

.   .   .

For many days, fjulsfut harassed dumbfounded races with aloofness, crassly awakening within Niceans a birth of united outrance. Save for finth, harboring them indifferently in their gnomic blunts, the fifth lacked all ayes. Their nominal savior, cast in weeping ditch after crushing defeat, studied habits of dust mice and emerged masked. The Grand Alliance, heaving in exhaustion from empirical victories, prepared to lose no time. In confrontation at Pleiades, principals drained their effects in spinning inexplicable acts that inadvertently released arguable abnegation of their grievances. A fortuitously collaborative mission to locate a long lost and cherished missing sock approved races to one another. What was the point of having an information system if you were unable to send over for it?

The fourth agreed to curtail their ceaseless audits. In the perilous simplicity moreover, inter–regnum evolved over a council of disparate equality, legitimating hitherto loathed fifth for their expertise with Nicean diffusion faculties. Industrious and adaptive, they created many planets. inter–regnum recognized their utility, eventually inviting them to fold in on condition that they fashion more masks for themselves. The sixth, dreadfully beautiful, took up posts in outer darkness, relishing any chance to hone their diplomatic skills. The troika of fourth, fifth, and sixth exerted de facto influence on daily affairs on Nod, in arrangements of persistence unto the present second.

“Keep ironing, lady,” Clifford said, accessing, via the inter–outlet net through drive A, quantities of time, mass, elapsed time, velocity, quantity, volume, space, acceleration, and noise projected onto a blank wall cleared of usual childhood mosh posters. Deerfield started in grudging admiration. “An harmonic auto reply system,” he declared. The youth confirmed scrounging a trans–mutative bypass frequency, but Raoul, who’d worked for CIC, had left stuff lying around. Beneath the mess theme, they searched the skies. As telescopic questions emitted into ether, the stylus poised over a chart. Radio transcendence traced from the heavens tweaked as fed back frequencies on a map that lacked but one ideal, that of accident, the given, the random, the optimist retort in facile entropy, the wanderer from the belt detached, that megatonnage chunk of rock that was having a good time in the papers.

Somewhere, beyond the orbit of Neptune, an interloper, heedless and dumb, slipped into focus. Deerfield bolted upright. An exposition of impolitic encumbrance chanced at and sped toward all known facts withal, were, in these tales of every enigma posed against lasting value, thwarted by men experienced in several tasks. Wormwood, never far from his beck, took up a position on the simulacrum, forecasting, immediately, pausing in short rushes only to nibble at the hamster food in Deerfield’s hand, to indicate the exact path and timing of the incoming projectile. An exacting proponent of the Tombaugh method, he was an expert at calculating movements of celestial objects. When would they ever learn, was a question, invited of evolving nodes, that might not one discern whether the design of outboard seething was the true role of anti–freeze?

Of all existing scribblers, none yet had advanced a plot indicting that scourge. Pens instead, of clannish hopeful bees immediately desirous of justice, met and, in fifteen minute intervals ranged, having one estimable purpose: to house enough primates, clattering before the lidless eye, to produce still more page turners featuring schema of maddened profiteers intent, we knew the stacks pined for one morphemic stimulant as concern about reality mounted; voices persisted in reminding us that everything would be done to hasten our arrival. Unquestionably, one’s only hope resided in the practiced revival of visual form.

A demand for specialists, skilled in translating trans–cultural ekistic signals, emerged from a honorable clutter of lath and genomes. Eventually, given that wastrels were as incapable of deft comprehension of the east’s dreamy scribbles as was I, thereupon an unspoken closure deferred a similar idea, evoking ergonomic challenge which sufficed for all use. Temperance beckoned us toward adage (still, we slouched to your own tune, wishing) that everyone might join us first in platonic ideal, yet actually how the how–to industry might transmit, to an illiberal region, such tenets as representation, suffrage, or pluralism, were only known more to citizens we one day hoped would emulate us, than to us.

Deerfield’s brain slid, as a rule, slowly, yet with excessive finality, the International Astronomics Commission mooting the existence of this potential for months, Elias was crestfallen, thunderstruck, dumbfounded, aghast, floored, or not surprised. If these kids and their science project knew, then what hope was there? “Just keep telling yourself it’s beautiful,” he whispered. This universe, long extolled, by Elias, through his flyers, eflots, books, interviews, and television programs, as a large, purple, and friendly expanse of mechanistic predictability, had thrown a clinker at him. It seemed that he had no hope, now, of obstructing the Polar Star orbital launch project. The Suppressants seemed to notice his angst, yet were confident that he would think of something.

.   .   .

Exposed to Ensign Plair’s Euro–tech medley, Talitha thought that listening along with someone to the saloon ragtime was an acute embarrassment. It was like being around with everyone in the office, listening to a horrible song and feeling forced to duck. Yet, she thought we had a reminder in our life of glitzy promise, all of the chilled things once during a distant youthful time. Plair stopped gazing at the Lilliputian mark upon her ankle, and aware how easy does it for several of us to fuss over misinterpreted cues from our parents’ place of record and onto more priceless classics, she retracted her sandal from view. One day discouragement arrived in many forms. Friends moved. The ways of telling up how taps of creativity ricocheted into senseless disrecognizance as she fixed for herself a second metrical.

The stares of Plair bore into her for hours it seemed, as the music system played sound bites for advanced attention deficit disorders. They were thirty second delta wave themes of longing, betrayal, and despair that sped the meal along tepidly. Plair wished to translate them to the luminous delegate sitting across from him, to demonstrate his lingual skill and sensitivity, but he perforce had failed to gain her notice. During though those few instances when he might have wanted to tell her his thoughts, she could see that he had, sensing this, smothered them already, contending for or against proverbial situations in little fortune cookies. When the last bee of summer pollinates the solstice flower, a shadow will be driven from the sea. Even if, at this moment, she appeared able to let him in on one thing, and indeed sage destiny seemed prepared to unfurl, couplets were now known to them as author of poor haiku, cognizant of an organizational lapse, arrived.

The luminous delegate trained her regard upon the approaching Horace. “If ever there was a spark between us,” he announced then, “one would be calling one about now,” instead of confining their conversation to these sporadic weekend foul–up reports. Horace was considering himself more interesting than he actually felt (at these junctions the protagonist always fancied the party to his conversation more attentive than usual). A crucial dialog, shown in between delegates, indicated the end of all events that would be, Talitha sighed (exeunt servitor). Horace often believed that his lexicon of subduction phraseology had, though sheer dint of disuse, faded like lemony ink over the years, leaving him inhibited, deferential, passive, situational, opportunistic, labeled, and no longer ordinarily fond of masks.

As etiquette stipulated, were they supposed to peer around a surface of material that had seemingly transmuted with every pulse into baryons, a pyroclast filament etched halogen finish upon whence, off lofts deadeningly stamped, toward a numinous horizon of perpendicular lattice–like garnishment of didactic import, spotted heffalumps glared against a pasty film? “You might try flex,” he began, but she interjected, “how can I?” “It would be like selling myself.” “That would make things worse.” “Shall I find you a — ? ” he added? “No,” Talitha indicated, “you might still sell short.” “We’ll always be still, friends.” With a shrug of indifference, she allowed Tolstoy to escort her to a nearby garden, remaining in the gazebo while Plair, planning open force, resolved to show up, or at least bore her away from the stage.

.   .   .

Constance reasonably registered this baleful attitude, forecasting that further outbreaks within the vengeful visions of purgatory beneath the solemn light of Jupiter would be his, unless the father of heavens soaring in the late winter dawn minding its own business was strictly always attempting to react to your own dilemmas with understanding sense — since so rarely already was each inky evening to one an eight hour imaginary concord flight traversing the recess of patterns less problematic in daylight? Given into echoes, extensive, peer unto the well while demonstrable fewmet scooters dialed in too late for cost defraying effects of a pax secularitas that looked better in either/or polynomial slowdowns. Frederick impinged advances into the proto–antigen development of gilded euphemism, regarded under Alcuin to be complement with the induction of auriferousity, whereas all Norns unprecedentedly articulated a null exposition recant.

A largely nautilus mess oft errant, Florian, now Idiopath of Worms, stared gallantly upon his new see, a non–licensed operative upon its premise. The fish gathered in congratulatory mode, after escaping a clutter which decried that both success, as yang as it was, and substances one needed as yin to avoid success, were both illegal, a ruling that throve upon interest and was self pervasive. They had of course knuckled under at times, cleared decks for the next fair wind, and waited for it, but learned perversely that wind never arrived until endless bales of copra and other baggage had been allowed to reaccumulate upon one’s decks, in which case fair wind hailed with vengeance. Pity the cosmic balance was maintained. Smoky anthems receding to echo into silence, minty astute ghostly casts just eerily thimbled out fogs at imminent Edda, soaked clues those past inks clung.

“Let us praise,” the fish recited, “the nice humans who have given their dreams so that we may eat them. We have always eaten dreams without a second thought and in comforting rationalization that they are fulfilling their destiny. Certainly, there must be fonder aspirations than to sit in front of these retroactive emitting devices that suck dreams from their heads and onto silver platters for us. Declare our actions just and shield us from retribution.” Aided with 14–0 keg puddle gatherings on halftime, their group has moodily owned in vain sooth these tripely duels’ futurity. Oft a Pentecost should ever guess, and hoolahed, elite tete–a–tete met a domain in their in–verse, kept a media honk, and racing chimeras, bands, their hats, boys, their twisted values, and their resident with them, leaving the tiny town to celebrate in irretrievable peace. It, thy resident, arose to answer her own weir to a lady bonnily and coifed lakeishly in green floor length semblance, who bore horn. Horace gaped that what was once Europe was now mostly rusticity.

Tinted a delicate cherry blossom pastiche, the Global Village once encompassed southwestern Europe, most of what Prince von Metternich had once described as neither Holy, Roman, nor an Empire, nor anywhere else. Belarus, Ukraine, India, Singapore, Micronesia, and Seattle, and the rest (or somewhere) had recourse to terra–formed Nod. The lady fixed a glib seeing, “of course, that we do all the work around here, we thought you might like to know this was a land of elves, divided yet standing, and the second half remained.” The universe reneged from the runway to demented booster frenzy, the sullen townsfolk and their scrappy counter–chants quashed while the beloved God’s cue dissembled time after time in any eternity, kindly seeking the brinking score, only fluttering the clinches. The visitors utterly remembered they were favorites. scrapmon’ glowered at fish complacently working away with inklings. If only they knew the angst that he experienced so that they could complacently work away. Judges allowed the visitors a penalty shot.

Argus–eyed monitors potted, the doge’s cure had sank with one foot on the playing surface. When the visitors made this chance the score was 14–1 thereat. This spelled a last half hour of microcosm lasting a century, in which all notions of progress, ecology, optimism, and integrity were shed in the area of shrieking majority. Never mind that after every visitors’ skoal, the entire magic bus tea their cheerleaders poured, their band twittered, out onto the field for back flips and general showing up until indulgently shooed away by officials. There was a pause as scrapmon’ pondered the wisdom of throwing himself upon the mercy of the system, simply by declaring himself a miscreant in order to get out of this present condition. “Fine,” he replied, launching immediately into the density of human conditioning. It was a variegated tale not said easily again.

At the end of it, the score was 14–15. Its pulse, aware that this silence was manipulative, ashamed and annoyed with itself for being non–natural, poor, and goofy, twitched. “Well, I had better release you for your great works,” said scrapmon’. “By the way, we are not receiving enough dreams,” said Florian. “That is a very big problem,” scrapmon’ argued, though he wished to say, like, waah, why don’t you plug a couple icons and get them yourself? “I will spoonfeed tea then to you,” it felt compelled into addendum and, hung ten, scrapmon’ glowered at the fish who swam complacently working away at inklings. If only they knew the angst that it experienced so that they could complacently work away.

.   .   .

Long, long, long, long, long ago, ever since before the time of Great Window, inter–regnum, comprised of three original races, beings of sound, matter, and light, were reminded of an appearance by shadow puppet, Who’d never failed to bear hazard of their provisional status, they being but caretakers, and lumine, children of Light, ere His to collect. The approaching day compressed original beings into a state of division that crossed essential boundaries. SOMHAD, a penitential faction, an iterative commune of would wills, augured that first of the colloidal races, all too busy, creatures of firmament, and now fourth race, beings of great and ponderous intellect, had in creative exception provoked His wrath. SOMHAD reasoned that this attempt to obstruct continuity abrogated claims of inter–regnum onto cherished original innocence. “SMORTHS, an orthodox faction, argued that approaching divine collections were contra fulfillment of scripture, blending carefully as not any diminution of shadow puppet’s love for them. This body of opinion comprised nearly all of the cheerful tictus, aroused little but suspicion and contempt within other more anxious counsels, which were actually not sporting enough to regard rarer discoverers.

“In truth, heard, a more prayerful faction condescended upon the Children of Core, a vociferous lodge of hearth matrons, emulated on land, who claimed that, of all without, the given free will was the germ of possibility. ‘Doth ye heave same,’ dank Hesitance, soaking a yowl foremost, ‘the patch meant to ruin tics, where my caricature lets?’” Noone replied, “return to your geodesy before the decision experienced,” and “‘were a rare hour spent,’ Dauphine, a surfing virtual plain foment involving lack of morning hosiery, Lazarus you have got me wrong babe, if then s/he had not known what had happened anywhere, anymore this occupation forced all stars post ex nihilo stereo spectrum infra–indigo, each roiled from the kettle of sure looks, than outliers, that had been appointed in the refrainant stead, in evidence that emergent team building principles witnessed inclinicity?’ ‘They’ve beached noble tin, both evocative of genial drab lores, again sworn to mumbly use, eh?’

“‘Then why are we there anymore,’ asked Regatta, drawing another vector onto the bogus tracking template? “This, duly woon, eyed level felt, heap lying,” Noone plaid. For the thawed mask, Fanta, virus fancier, crept in, eyeing Nesbit’s thanatos, to empower nary an optical bib coral. “‘Recuse, hen, this Tory was first writ away when tutorials, suddenly not a forte lost early, sought a desk. I’m gone, plush techno lift trodden forth per se.’ They’re at once neon, as a trove, inert twist, elicited help for those who help themselves, citing Franklin, whose aphorism subsequently trans–mogrified into scripture. In this mint, a few reflectively chosen lumine, disguised, digested, or disgusted as dark matter quasars, evade the Window. Shadow puppet’s deft creative halon itinerant, His non–chatoyance wholly as fierce as our dismay to inter–regnum, braced as what, unto protein marry, albeit diffident, icons of Cyane, extracted forth exits from greater star tote. Fitted in spight of toxic stream jets sooth gotten ere odd, factions fined éclair text thence as poetry indeed, a greater weave left hurled up. If in Lourve pose, they’re forthright, noblest upon scents expended on other boundaries, their bread buttered near a trace crew east of the fifth (second of the colloidal), fjulsfut, producers of matte, in tandem booster flight, a hot feat oath, sinuous, limbic, mandible, cedar, floundered by design laws, where ideation sees graft in scattered craters, those that mirror blurring tonic. In theory, kittens, hitherto fjulsfut survive: Briareus or Hephestaus were tetrahedron deities, after aeons, best if tame be each bulk school whom inter–regnum had coalesced, more or less unsuccessfully, around thin, germane lumine. This slight source proved tenuous, scarcely abundant for their burgeoning. A fine formula for success,” being the concomitant summation of Indocile, in reply to Mr. Ng’s question about the present status of their culture.

.   .   .

Childe Horace revives the double margarita to the feisty Countess Constancia (Echo), an old dime, and successfully boating a backlog for his pinnace in arbitration rapt linotype.

III — v — An Initially Irrevocable Margin.

.   .   .

Since every moment that had elapsed, and Shrdlu, hence aware of the impact of manual FTP study upon others, and the idea that pensive nasty instructions were no longer than there, his personal salvation, become entertaining to him, concomitantly, and on other levels, thought, “now that this is aware of it and can relate individually, this will increase chances of being serious.” While it would have been simpler to seek permanent repair, combinative shared encyclicals blogged into a semiconscious millstone of mainstream recognizance and peril, yet feeling too laid back to deal with anything, Shrdlu laughed at others who would not hang with texts, thereby reinstitutionalizing traditional patterns of fear, dismissal, or harm from arbitrarily imagined other faiths, and was deeply ingrained of avoidance of everyone else in a similar fix of comfortless ideals. He preferred to believe all other persons, with clarified vision, breezed zestfully in comforted fulfillment, released from concern, and morphed into a flickering ember of sometimes.

In this unrealized vision, Shrdlu scorned a place of acceptance, an area of external communion, dry as a Venn to him yet eternal Erewhon, and those vast intractable crystal certs of inevitability wordlessly overlooked endless emerald steppes, voidable theatrics, missed lunch, harmful iniquity, all here forgotten and incomparable spans of moments clasped in winks, early desire, passion, fervor, sleeplessness, toil, justification, leisure, image absent now; it was when he had clamored, for fate as an absolute reality, that now had come to the end of years, fringed in repentance, regret, or remorse, that transubstantiation receded to a vaster distance, and left him only his love of a world which grieved for him as an unattainable bore. Amid his out–timed ideals, only Shrdlu talked more or the longest, because they were too lengthy to expound in the general square. They set about marking bounds, for outdoor use only, because they were surrounded within an enclosure of bisnaga and blinked distastefully as snapped in subtle development about garments hung upon the spiny Antares.

.   .   .

Would a logical advance lead unto new paradigms, Sylvia’s brother, yesterday wooing liable thin front if other yard, wee Sybil had been as exiled as in a cadenza paper machine. “In God’s how upset art duties aft kept changeling,” uttered Fr. Anselm, where stains tug. Oft Margaret’s concert troupe dinted those hampers and booths, yet wild huge nocturne noise, the latex mantis fluffing ethers to every impotent ivy sitar, swept with either terror or a scant, wan national heaven for labeling, unto a ward woven tote, a being, for my diorama moose alas was not always it. Variegated within sounds of elastic trumpets, a swan maven extended a hat by the idea or potential existence of an humbler man than he.

As far as Henry (VII) had been concerned, the man, born of Mary, existed with all green fustian grooves, which meant that all of humanity was simply content to dig for an emptier throne with ease as a somewhat benevolent exercise. Sashes shone by a kindled peasantry, a sly Henry (VII) gleamed in able catharsis. “As thy cagey song tilt, ‘our fate has fumed group pin erosion causelessly.’ Did or did not a roan lord sway, ‘cost out your own mote (Matt 7:5)’” “This freed life I,” the German monarch had splayed, entitling a natty model of the big old Elector of Flippenberg’s death, “gainsaid, this better judgement the sacrist was liefer to have thrown into a teleological gnosis truth whitener.” “We’re still paid to desire that pineapple,” Fr. Anselm decried.

“Yet while employed they bled rede, you ran at the versts of perestroika, you appalling evil voles,” the monarch authorized. As soon as he staged, the house displaced behind a tree and people in–house, covered to the count of ten, or until Deerfield made it to the next house, were always free to leave. “For sure,” the sacrist argued, “don’t have a cow. It’s curious, that nestled shard of grace, all that binds sin need flash at this goofy drool (Rom 3:23).” “And does man’s goat rope of newer yurt paths involve astrology and chary ICC alarms?”

“It does,” Fr. Anselm relied. “A writ as vastened wit by St. Raoul, ‘what is most fit, either gospel ministered in flopped cites or long kinds, a song as calm as it is plied (Phil 1:18)?’” “I am in a pale huff, alas that clench Rome adopts to warn dank minds,” Henry (VII) caviled. “We emerge as having both aspect, and are volute for both God and accretion.”

“Then a lot you know here, alive to hear malt,” the sacrist (staid nod), a thin super ghost peeved. Henry nuanced on, “forums exclaiming the glory of Christ therein but stir the divers head.” “Hidden, the acrid test, limp corn, chowed whole.” Henry rasped, “don’t you argue with meta–teeth: God was the benign giant hand and ether, that whisk exited at the beginning, before all over things, was never generated but simply was.”

“Existence denies, for I,” the sacrist conceded, “therefore, that which is not created cannot be disturbed (1^st Law: Thermodynamics).” Waiting for that hesitant odd misery should settle speedier gruel, flashy Clifford lent shrewd Fr. Anselm, noticing that some [sic] bats were beginning to stir far above them, diversion to conclude discussion.

“Yet, on more arguments, as compelling” — “shadow puppet’s,” in Henry (VII)’s persistent praxis, “cadence envies a dusty street beast!” “I cannot tell you how relieved I am to hear that,” Fr. Anselm muttered hastily. “Indeed it is the best news of all,” the monarch said. “Now to another matter. Involving a man who is very dangerous to our way off life. You must denounce him publicly.” “Why must I?” “Folks listen to you,” Henry (VII) said. “Your word is heavy.”

“Why lo,” interjected the sacrist, “a speckled cliff lark is perched outside the chancel!” “This donation anonymously will cover all of this,” Henry’s palmer, a bad dove, lagged. Fr. Anselm lent thorough hesitance, yet what manqué Henry was staining to have virtuously nuanced! Whose a sad few Aira shown, Frederick, one mad, spies demesne by sanity of that sacrist’s owl catholicon become chippier, saw the tiniest daddy of them could plant a vast chance to shop Hume.

Had not paprika left for glory in wax memo, the men watched in hem conga, chortling as the roadster executed numerals? Tinged, however, in arts of evasion, and relieved that strained visitations seemed to have ebbed, Fr. Anselm spoke, “are mendicant friars already active in this course you so urge?”

“Honestly, padre, who listens to them,” Henry (VII) shrugged? “You have, on the other hand, the common ear.” As they moved into the nave, frescoed along inner buttresses, a conception of a universe, a design recently conveyed by the visiting Mosaic scholar, a modern refutation of polemic principles all had held dear, was into stone stenciled.

Henry, noting this kempt, lately blanched. His question unspoken, one delegate from his suite reproached the sacrist. “We demand to know at whose instigation this insidious blasphemy exists,” the retainer rapped out.

.   .   .

Sylvia resumed raking as Ahem’s colleagues stood staring at this interruption, dropping them off, “would they stop expensively weighing the effect of their absence pertaining to subsequent emphasis?”

In dawning awareness that his prey had worn a fjulsfut mask, ahriman, from that one trailer, suffused the heavens with slow octave distress calls. “Do not step upon that, lest your numerous appliance had smattered.” Even here that year pushed the real strength of his suitability for condiments, wherein either left to the innermost chorus, this arduous pitch emanated from a hearth of seconds, or from a really great adieu to entropies uniquely athwart assessments of chance, were a prince so close to terms solo again, that any slightly away with the ad priori [sic], had these monads stood in toto with numerous instructions not liably tortuous with fallible horrors (their need for fidelity not only craved knowledge often in duress of stucco shame) was yet viewed slant wise through which hyper–borealis nodded from recent account.

Hearing distant explosions, “hark and hist,” thought Ahem, therein lied the best part of love, “worthy ostler,” quoth he aloud, “periodically berate us for aspects of venue. Struggle in my concert, felicitous elicited darkness that forever eludes men, only because they had known success (if partial) to the freakish abandonment of alliance premonitory to that stunted full ailing long petition neither shopworn nor feebly assonant.” It was not as if they had active social lives, and these dramatis personae, credibly possessed of recalled missing ousts, perceived limits to all out of mind, seeing their minister walking hand in hand with a dybbuk. Fr. Anselm replied, “it is unfinished,” adding, “and you might want to know, the practice of depicting works of evil being, by grace of our Lord o’erborne, is common among buildings of the day.”

“You imply that this then is a cosmic foil, a straw man, a crash test dummy,” they surmised. “In all faith,” the sacrist noodled, “already glaziers are puttying the touches upon depictions of our Lord trampling upon revanchiste ideals of those parvenus.” An idea smote him and he gave voice to it extemporaneously. “Moreover, I regard this as a fitting contribution to your cause.”

The importunate scion relented slightly. “My father is a heliocentricist, and I will drive him into hypostasy!” With this pledge appearing to restore his good spirits, the King of the Romans bid adieu nervelessly, they faced the writhing terminus of medial useful coils pro forma. “Forgive the price of eight dozen eggs,” Ahem was heard to say, and how dry were seen Formica fifth tabling inner measurable azure stairs toward Erewhon.

During his ascent to posts of ICC, Ahem Mi’sik Irwah had never expected PoD to try anything this obvious. “Aha at the end of any session,” Ahem chided him, “if you want to dance with anybody, you don’t need to tell me too soon,” for to the envelopment of several pale nothings, they left to jump–start the crescendo ontos. Once, Ahem had instructed scholars, whenever confronted with demotic possession, to listen for a lie to tell that one is bounded by systemic applications of contractual policy.

“While wool gathering, lie down and break it out, devote oneself to the study of dust and its impact upon life, and become only conformed within a flame lenticular.” The armload of eflots steadily slid away into the neighborhood as traces of a path back to the Tox appeared through the hedge, not a creature was stirring and an ideal morning pollination was completed in ragtime. Her brother Clifford was manipulating the remote for Sylvia’s roadster, when the song of Joplin from the turn of the century overtook them, smashed it into smithereens, and left them. Sylvia at last laughed hysterically. She had truthfully seen her older brother break into one of his toys.

Between siblings, this conferred an immeasurable advantage. Clifford, if only to avenge his crestfallen countenance, resolved to find the perpetuator. He might have forgiven this chauffeur’s dour silence, had Elias known that once the Institute discerned his colleague’s role in setting Burning Man aflame prematurely, charges were straitly mooted and met with parallel censure, though as Justine stood, it was north of our skill at weaving for Core. She, sad outcast from neither world, from whom no one would ever hear how much was left unsaid, for it was written once, when the summer solstice flower gave out to the last bee of autumn, a shadow would be driven from the sea.

.   .   .

The couplet, assuming anyone understood the utility of cloaking grave matters within halves, was on a rice cookie that had been snatched away from Ensign Plair the moment he folded his menu. Agitated servitors had, not far from his sight, replaced the vellum sampler in a fresh confection held, as in earnest for an expected guest. Fishing about the harmonium for his favorite frug, which had leapt into his ear at shift change, Plair stood convoked to silence, lest a resumption of curiosity end the sufferance of his custom. His straitened deck allowed fewer possible choices, re: pause whenever words wore out in imagery.

As witness to trysts below, yet actually noting little of them, the ensign was at time present, albeit stood up, after emplacing four quarters for his favorite songs, through which hopefully, seated so near an exit next to this girl so far, Talitha, he had failed to gain her notice. The gram band that was once of a quality shot mystique item during the dawn of cyber–technology (circa 1985) now had difficulty booking State Fair. After two name changeovers, a sell off of Christendom, fits of huge objectivism, cans opened, and worms everywhere, Bitsy, checking your gifts’ birthrates at the door, was hostess to the transfiguration of governable consent. In antiquarian modes frequently coincident with an aim after just one second (would Regatta’s be pleased as all get out), as tough an admixture of isthmus soundings rang interminably poorer bluer sterility than were immovably objectionable.

Now basking in a stasis absinthe and likely to say I am a rede, as missing links hopped elsewhere, Bitsy conducted affairs with distant relief. How fiercely the minstrel resumed, “Niobe defined her children from reproaches of the pale bog oak with the air of one who had let others off the hook so many times that she expected to be rewarded for her leniency by having others voluntarily return thereupon; all told she singed swishly crunched through a magnesia so escapist that conceivably the spectrum of aesthetic ability was all a measure of vitiation, inasmuch as the affectation of any external proclivity denoted an individual predilection towards fetishism,” and ataxic from these coruscating notes, Frederick, Tyrant of Sicily, watched as this appalled Dutch uncle brooded bitterly upon means of redressing these wholly misdeserved slights.

Buffering streams of conterminous how, why, and wonder broom mopping thermopiles, shabby snails excused the revolution without them, made 3D owl eyes at her aboriginal behavior, and conspired Bitsy’s inexorable stand. Renovated at the end of winter, the ground gave up its smells of grease and they wafted with tentative spring south breezes. She would not have been surprised if they had already have forgotten all themes deviously, including one ædith, who withdrew from sudden confidence each, praising her children as strapping brats and offering each an orange for Christmas. With alacrity she said, “I think you ran out of some redux.”

“Scratched notices,” shrugged Plair, knowing that she was chosen for her ability to emit gasps fitting to post industrial incidents. “The real waste was not always,” he said, setting his green tea down on the intaglio without a coaster, “a loafier of considerable vastness.” Charily interposing one, Bitsy was bereaved to find that conclave had again misprinted their slogan: “A man’s faults of those of his civilization; his virtues of his own — W. Goethe.”

This banner, posted over the labyrinth that greeted pledges, fluttered in a moist Biscayne breeze that suggested antiquity to those given of any mind to know their environment. The doors unlocked and their volte–face [sic] executed, arrivals, dismayed their destination flirted with bromides dismissive of express severity while all about them the detraction of occidental values receded, committed to a claim of jurisdictional suspension and acquainted the participation placard with sixteen times sixty–four brackets.

.   .   .

On both hands, vacuum, but in one an active personae ennoblement messaging facility imposed over a supra–optional legacy lest monotonous receptor age another, palled before noticeably hair splitting dilemmas, common merely to individuals following ardent self–appraisal regimens, who had arrived without any more ideals. Many appointments already nearly dwindled, and aware that a reformation had started without them, tardy arrivals registered hastily and crowded to ogle the event schedule, which touted tonight’s pledge dinner, Snore Through the Cure. The hiccough, Mr. Horace Tolstoy suffered, disguised forasmuch as he’d delved in former formula folders more vanilla if nihilistic themes to impute a select inner quality pronounced as an excess of distance present, stayed out for an immediate description of them for plainly, through all fault of yonder hymn, a character started and a note, to which small importance was attached, fluttered.

Horace studied scrawls indicating the Ruthenian Contessa was nigh, reviewing her history. Echo had shed her first old suit with a sure hello spoken so icily that as the man for lifting her acknowledged vex another insult as he described it occasionally indicating their unison least livable where the when pressed upon her as off reality his perception of Thermidor imbued nigh wholly with the entire expected fortune of her next installation; these dangled precedent sullied by the man who demonstrated a concerted desire for that first though final time, following immeasurable moments of strain, figuring that he had diagrammed most notorious plots, inveighing the heiress for noted immoderation and claiming that she was against his entire cause, her first old suit had fallen with a gasp as lead paper crystal suspended snow globe struck him senseless, and as his lawful wife Constancia reasoned that remaining with him for visiting hours of almost three week’s duration until the man, who won for her styled as robust precursor to an illustrious outcome by dying, to then renew favor the probable heresy violating prime solecisms it was with untoward envy that the Village Court had ordered the entire estate of Ruthenia returned to the moodily jaded hesitant hussy who was so vehemently singular.

Hence, at Echo’s arrival, Horace would have left over an iris bulb at finth with an aim of precipitating a disabling censure. Erstwhile, in earnest, was one proclaiming swannily, dare I drag thee from thy naïve hearth amidst general wailing to be determined to a lyrical, aerie row situation of seeming bleak sense (stated within Gemini azimuth, an attendant ide became woolier). Answer: biodegradably inspired dust mice accorded fashioned developments of history, seeming to disdain all shading efforts, by saying, you see us, do not think the blind fools our resolve. Per idiocy, an apoplectic isomer Type N, as eager to advance causes appeared, pulling up short as she witnessed Tolstoy so closely ensconced in development of a marginal major action plan with someone else. Had she ever imagined as changed a king? There, hid in showy sorts, scrapmon’ et al [sic] hazed amounts of monsoon Faust bias in gypsum beyond illicit hoofing. “Ten tiers we’d fain reform in succession ere meniscus fortes leapt our slack viewfinder GPS.” Justine’s eleventhing dabs away all toxin of febrile trail mix lest boffo tremens douse her unseen. Such riot, often borax–like, usurped incense because of moonstruck Lamarckian chia spools. A most mimsy agave bore druidic hallmark, bunched along peaked yet skimpy moats very raftable on elevated filigree.

So sue me, he could say if contorted, so Thledvirrson postponed visible scenes for alternatives ongoing, chose to suppress as leaven within popular journals, and heeded to a tan vinculum phase. Fulminating elements often ransom dear for due to strengthening the sand lime lit lent out as frontage of an imprudent mask an aerial reclamate that, span from out of southern exposures lately counted for little, as an oracular phenomenon bore out (upon carrying, Echo heard him say to her, I have all of time upon me, yet face a sense of arrested motion. Items appeared, thoughtfully deodorized alack, for the nostrum trace deferred amidst emissive misnomer in defective manner tines in a mis–array. Another’s entrance coated then ailing micronauts within casual escarpment press. The misalliance, noted an observer inclined to excessive reflection, was an appalling nuance in a tour of stones thrown. Had mere usage of a properly sworn plat that before us (bethink sine) was among many articles dished through an anxious prevision of aggregate counsel, over the other side of the hill ago accompaniment to litanous march of tenacious few would have not so escalated into the error of refraction, pontificate, and approval to majesty, downstairs an entire dust mice theory hummed). Under psychosis, each ledge kept free of moist coal rose dust, it was possible for long walks in blase relief, mitigating the wow factor typified by lactose incandescence.

Rum notes indeed, voire dire [sic] dispersals clanged for these lost daisies phasing south egolessly in tints rather comatose. Fr. Anselm, with argot of dumb tics, had wrung fissile odes out of the innate sensibility manifest by the more diagonal eldritch, who’d chilled next to stubbed–out font. “Contra,” he inscribed, “to unfrumious salvatude nearby, I expect tubular eternity will pirouette to retro–dub a shared domain of origami valence. This sop to multiversal alimony must graft into a futurity predisposed for acts of rhinestone calmness, if weird, too exteriorized bonfires signally nuance the emphatic relevance of shadow puppet.”

This focus on incidental refrain, for Flambeaux’s extrapolative craft seemed nevermore strained by his ancient colleague’s bent toward an intransitive case, placed at arm’s length the redactive ubiquity long held as germane when few scholarly addendum symbolic outliers seemed reposed in margins inter alia. Contextually stymieing most was an insistent willingness to withstand scrutiny as evinced in a bygone sense of looming whatnot.

Throughout schematic inklings had Henry’s consort, Margaret, reticulated matters immediately apropos to the sacrist’s nemesis, if in such wise that a deipnosophist might be called upon to unsnarl the lacey dream skeins of her montage. Courting amenity with significant obeisance, Tolstoy nodded, leaving the teal vapor guess to self–implied propensity, views, form held after a primordiality and sheaves apparently zygmototized. Avid in spectacular fashion, the countess yielded all of, erstwhile to a theorem on a peeve, hope in absolutely any case, yet stressed upon her principles a consequent expression of ownership concurrently within trust and also belief systems inaugurated within an unanswerable indignation lest her vexed anklet reveal an ulterior sociality.

So many earlier adherents of either sect who had chosen to neglect these stringent caveats were soon sent from their grant collecting internships in disgrace. Horace, recognizing the propriety of the situation impersonally acceded, and in wake of Constancia’s exeunt nervelessly studied the pendulum.

As the clepsydra indicated a precision analog — spelling ten of seven, adulatory elsewhere events fetched outpourings of longing for a luminous delegate. In playback, discoverer (all too busy) was vexed with his cogitations. Every dial aboard had gone astray. “Well, punch my button and call me Marta,” the discoverer (all too busy) exclaimed, upon learning that the other pole shift had mattered in his NASCAR rotisserie league. It was a distress call from ahriman, who had invoked his technical privilege as lumine.

This separation of anxieties occasioned a reckoning of how boys continued to validate their pluck at keeping in time before the present stage. Anyone might have not the tiniest inkling that power failure would be the consequence of an action. “However,” he added, “they are my chickadees, therefore I shall not squelch them. I will append PoD and restore chichi [sic], and perhaps that Ambassador will finally return my endless love.” With re–calibrated instruments, the discoverer (all too busy) resumed digital telemetry with the rest of the fleet and proceeded silently into celestial chorus, continuing to brood on problems doubtless fructificating.

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