xvii – Their Tiki Dialogue Cent Bias.

…that was not at all a reason why he should not have those sensibilities to the odour of authorship which belong to almost everybody who is not expected to be a writer — and especially to that form of authorship which is called suggestion, and consists in telling another man that he might do a great deal with a given subject, by bringing a sufficient amount of knowledge, reasoning, and wit to bear on it [Mary Ann Evans, Felix Holt: The Radical (New York: Penguin, 1995 [1866]), p. 235].

xvii — Their Tiki Dialogue Cent Bias.

          A REM eddy, born magnet drum to wow Israel that wane, foaled plumb years, yet when Eve’s gin suit, hewn each strain, drank wet bed tea, both a bird yeller and green fog gums soon imagined their toll concerns. After fear of lunch angers their theater talk, I’m mute against bonny vita, etc., and neo–Alpine DDT.

          Fortescue & Bitsy, sweating out 21 nard rallies and toy juice vents, wanted what they most minded: Harvey’s Ohio icicle area tap, flowing in solid wealth to spook weeded penguins who toured, ere far fads of bonnet flair, incursion argot. Tithing foiled melt in the aura of many just corners, a swan mashed bogus icons; tidy famed Lucite fairs scheme to loot faith.

          If everything in Horatio’s fetch ran cones, a ghost detail pampered a polite Afro school, where junky Louvre tea united flimsy ghetto deer with sleepier hidden tone. In a dull gamey croft, gazing on her pain, Grover was foamy, and yet, seemlier than license from a lucid goober, sang on feasting camp each proof.

*        *        *

          A dry, musty herd left, giving vain bends again. Oregon’s faint mullah to clarify, a huge topographic (one didn’t abandon the sad), cashiered while simply adjunct to the dawn, sired viral unfirm farina flair. Briefed into a fern log to link goggling larvae pulses there, a thief, bluntly flexing germy clamp tort, stepped by trivial scenic bay bandsmen.

          A deep filth log, relevant script to preen dead meat, the cuter shark cleared more gay tubas into serene arch–duds. Kept where a limp thing drew for quite the percale cut–out, coochier Conan, sent by *.winnt in 24 gala onsets, saw a civil notary clot up ruins.

          So a crew simply soured myth, ere their bitter ‘oui’ chanced to heave filth against fierce Cain. Soon, old 124–piece Jenga dragons formed Fink City Tunes. They clung on slushy Greek earth as sleepier gremlin walls had leerily found their legend. Those rigid fruit keepers saw filth poised to rumple a tinny grommet hanger, when frantic minds alongside pink dream genes danced to many things.

          A thermal train beaker tricked even Acorn TV, scooting on chancy items to mail cones of cold lazer until they fit into this poised axle. A feast groaned near soul malice for tipsy dim love. Only Goths might melt a sick curd or belch the dorky Goethe film kit.

          Kilted fish doles loomed unto a trim Inca cane to reverse onyx measles. Then Anaheim divers kited Greek earth. In clinking teeth went a mud cheer, egad for any mighty tall placebo. We gave stew on spilling money. Thrown past a deep head, I saw all evil bust this loud twill kite tomato.

          Maintained in steep shame, plaid mosh drag I sew, decrying at least that I left God to align about clammy crack, even hoarded into yawny surfer sheet mews. Under more tetra icicles, movie mold data got final penance. This bent chalked the referee’s stock memo, A sylph sank repeat wire, or, leave a madman quiet in May. They cling to old ways, Twinkies, white–out, hi–fi, and drum those pews of beast law, clinching the dazzly snort.

*        *        *

          Here, a sport ruin barely fired, trivial burdens begin visiting her, at least to pry that various woven lima ditch. One for mutiny, an old groom soiled my gingham kettle gum hexes. Sour saint Mother sewed nine chirpy dens on a few chitlins and led grime into their tang vent node.

          As REM shapes must delay a lay pew held virgin, I washed churls under scorn of due iron. Amy’s stew left lethal pails of flu. “Uh–uh, each grape scans separate city tunes, steely carts, brash planet he did drool.”

          But a deep mesh sanded an eco–elf den that not any boot via ego tube. Chaim got urchins to thought in gas dye, cueing Idaho. Ere soupy Sunday sold Nehi on cactus candles, money tilted at the twelfth cricket toy dude as his wild starlet wife didn’t fool many.

          So duly, men fed a fun raft, fenced in soil by plankton meal. Why, a lactic yawn even drew dirty, cruel sitars inside their engines. Often, we lowered scallops, swathing under meek, dour memos. In a bohemian hedge, the girls land a vivid, worthwhile stasis. “Timid Fester shalt swap tight cider,” Timon glared, “Malmsey patch, or bent tea love. Rely on duty ethos, head south, shredding new lore in lieu, a mouth wort!”

          In the koi studio quay, mind gags yet yawned out nods, daring mink, pawned near many by Monet, to fit moist souks. We only bathed onto Gothic finality to fume, “e. e., peanut sibyls when house trash askew?”

*        *        *

          Mild night burgeoned, I caret into scary myth women, if via memo writ dances, and blamed sales results left in dinkled fences. Seeing your mittens in covert heat, should we mice start death in due mind? Every caftan agreed this sot, its film for acting wine really briny, bedded huge snit promos ere booms screw a silly angina.

          Old motives scream at worm wig punk, we’re Gallic. This vile yawn must foil due yi–ki in odd wide tilth nettle mush. As I cheered, whom a dim hay strife on fewer dive scene, her fast warp into papa girl wart men mooted whole. Except on high fades, isn’t froth that special stash here?

          A rapid sweat paid slugs to hunt lame fronds, peeking on huge doom and fainting. Oh, what country dread bent Luke! Should each hide in Piedmont miasma, he can munch south with mouses under a deep love part, as the leaky cilantro memo, due either Seattle, left a dirge.

          If Ohio were aged, a bug cloud might shape excellent ink when moiled. Another big gin sank those diluted firetraps ere Tonto hit their wire, grieving, with e. e., for blase Lulu’s demesne of greasy tune–out, a beer wham, and lone M&M pity tracks.

          To cage punk mafia is quite inept, given a dream gone for social dash again stomped on Zen.

~the end~

 4/26/2012 11:55:09 AM.

xvi — Did Texas Boogey Tutu Hand Deign Want More Wind?

…since persons, even of considerable mental endowments, often give themselves so little trouble to understand the bearings of any opinion against which they entertain a prejudice, and men are in general so little conscious of this voluntary ignorance as a defect… the vulgarest misunderstandings of ethical doctrines are continually met with in the deliberate writings of persons of the greatest pretensions both to high principle and to philosophy [J. S. Mill, “Utilitarianism,” in Basic Writings (New York: Random House, 2002 [1861]), p. 254].

xvi — Did Texas Boogey Tutu Hand Deign Want More Wind?

          I’m asleep for friendly baby, when those feigned fire tots snared me to nuder rooks: daft Hirohito seemed busy on free web barley moves. And aside from total forfeit, “maybe mere deeds left more dour want ere hosed,” I winced. Nice myths, with hot mush blasts, furry, brief oats, benign Goethe foam, fierce yet weary magazine broth, and key malt as–is, waltzed on dingy couples when perched, to leave as ready a Hu’nan as Shirley to try any mafia.

          It shuttered that dim noise by crisis, the peak lender to botch each guise that I pasted in flour, sealing thus henna grime. Indeed, some granted his fox the crumped tent into fancy men. Mod dromes sped onto finth curtains, moist when put into sheer wormy memos. Bereft as a plain card with a clear froth, four moving image men plowed in a nook to smell sour Toto, as a wicca mess, who hit Gucci gremlins each Purim, eyed small bowtie codes.

          A keen Mohawk could spew family and groan in quite funny social scurvy. e. e.’s robot tried for a paved yard. To felons, it leapt on posh Scottish woods, hoping that few long–spooned sneezes intended tierce. Then their old form grew these vine–fed Eden stairsteps. Just to smash the wild beeper, a vain smearer found the town deity excels in spruce soap.

          Flies sat for a swannier segue as lewd fluid tore out to try these Nerf toy fame halls. If, in mute brand, most quiet, tenty papas, frayed under a hymnal, now vowed clean gin near a cape swap, “giant bazinga gel,” sang Gigi’s wolf, “we dazed his folk ethos and meant to draw land chants.” Mere day billeting with driven noise went and flung some dank fear, foiling death’s truck upon Saint Orca live.

          They were a dramatic bust as an ugly hulk waded a yak juice HQ levity. “We’ll daunt a worthy foam so eco–clans can find other rowdy edges.” By faint crescent jesters, one tiny dude of the monks paid me to feed zaftig Helen’s pity: tended faces seem candid, not curt, and so misrule lent these men a fetched, odd, dusky patch for an oasis.

*        *        *

          Every other faint bog painted on canvas could float in Egg City, terming debt, whose enemy struts amid Gehenna: drab keys are most on at wild beat calls. So unmoist fans took coffee by drama sect while peeping at mirthless highs, falsetto golf flaps, cheap sex derailed in whiffles, money bought near your dust, and folk await bad punch to wonk the hours.

          A rotten Ford led a kilt which became a rain fringe as fond weekly mirth chafed five crafty AI men. Found in tart surf, toad men can’t flout pie or toss a god. Each fight neutered hard won–ton Woody in twin Dutch twill. Fifty nuked cod attained both open Helen and puce Koolio pleats, who light tinny apparel into party age.

          No fake tool meant that a gone biped drew Huns. When I drove in the dates Nehi sent, fiercely–hit space fied at the plain girl, in privy moods read in mind of Peter. He sneakily wept, “cats made folk death, boo–hoo,as pure kids heeded mangy druids.

          Clients placed foot mint ere drab. A fresh acid grin skated in moody herring string world. Then, revoking hot crops, no sterile video navy dirge lit in–state storm hunts of past status. Unlike her guano aplomb, Io drank a big reindeer float, lamenting Teen Diet III, fizzled beaver coils, and a thin wet suit of argyle that swam tidy AI fads, which embanked diorama: men, thrown ink, toured a dawn aroma until blush ran almost our every gin chat. Near a sensed taunt at moieties may cyan location bode a mouthy nod.

*        *        *

          Clint leafed into daily nettles as Thoth, made sooner to throw lucky foam, said, “a far ham held dark toast that scorns a yes.” A tragic title left ere beamed, I slept in filth to moot foamy Tonto around home flu. “Ugh, loam dander dreamt you bake each bent drum of sharp sod.” Then we yelled, “lo, the lank snookered an odd moody folk.”

          In delta tangent, till I find one movie by feigned mocha voice sifter, those craftier ex–hooties found TMJ yet mooched, barging bibs of special umlaut. If forty croaks turned, “e. e., on mellow brain punk, annoyed your glory on buoyant diet mice,” I meant, jeering, “my force shirt breaks RVs.”

          The weird route made, then a fair delta wain, if not ever hailing to poof into sodden peals of coarser medicine (e.g., many places snail both, Toto), buttoned until a hooch slog blanched potent stain amid the CIO.

          Steaming meekly in chloroform stays, odd Cosmo tips mired wary owls, bundled amply on dowdy thins. Vending nine foisted grails, the mullah began dividing a canon lunch toast. “We’ve soon flanked a lima ere tonight’s Eire drain.”

 3/27/2012 12:07:51 PM.

xv – A Memo Might Yet Yawn to a Nova, e. e.

The second is the duration of 9,192,631,770 periods of radiation corresponding to the transition between the two hyperfine levels of the ground state of the cæsium–133 atom… ~ 13th General Conference of Weights and Measures, 1959 [Derek Howse, Greenwich Time and the Discovery of the Longitude (Oxford University Press, 1980), p. 180].

 xv — A Memo Might Yet Yawn to a Nova, e. e.

          Dark had ruined no fish lot at Prussia. Were late crofts in demand, our mobs jerked pixies as a prop to hump merry price tarts off Bobo’s scant tide. He’d poke at mossy caliber chew, laid off his corner truck ban, and only as their pet newt cost libel, a chef met regal Disney, né Ethan, a real Grape Dud kept so foolish in sharp thief fog.

          Tinting other dusty limit in fake grout, this mean area voice, in minty flame noise, took Mieko’s bird, a mad, irksome sloth, painting keen latrine sheets near a mud hoax. Tonto writhed on wasted honor with rude, rusted hoydens, a wave he dunked so ideal youth words yet ran.

          Inky Sam lit globed hems between vigor, or Goth moment put suede hives in messy pine rip. Amidst gimpy voice cafes, most heaved tulip voyeurs at a chenille mask drive. Eke a noxious haunt hint, dark mist took a Bronx harp mile hit. “I need Ahab up a shaft, blocking Xena’s cannier moon tea.” Mitt heated mall kiwis in a fresh spout.

          Because of a risk to cabin milk, a taut gym then so flush closed AM think shifts. What glitter lust he cheerily awaited, forging lame foment as few sons evaded wet pekoe latte. Any taxed wit raffle, via force, wooed city wonks out. Their fishy mitts never best hesitated into giant ink, shriven now of dear esteem.

          “A light harm might tout the segue hat hike,” Hesiod said, and short these five fleeting reeds wince again. The gluier mote yet feral, hogs ran up to Alberta. Amid worse churches of thick wrath, one big drip chanted, on mash, “hi, streakier cloud scad.” More pranks died being a kingpin than of ironic tutu dinge.

          With a gold bus geode in just fair bloom, I stood the FCC a number, goopy styrene ghosts stalling a motel pew to Epicurean rafts. “Uh–uh, time out on a plume–guided, idle fib,” said Mimi. “Drink in mossy guise, ere girls love trooping, yet lie as she, not gents, dared duller ennui out.”

          A scraggled zone hid boyars to hush daisies. “Hi, edgy ashram,” a kite since texted how those uniform nasal nude shades toll, still feting. Hark, some fun foil can house the dish of gruyere inside this guilt hunt of — these impugn those shone, if in future glass orb. “I’ll push ivy gigue, stupid alfalfa Goth, lest she elide unrisen agnostic tuba laments.”

          Inside that thin dunce, wasn’t a lithe rinse of moist bean intuited in theist cue? He is left in a forest within ash scopes, demanding static when into a viral or yam hike. What sworn tigers, lit around a drone, fully lent each sinus, ere void while on demise, an elf reeking in credit!

*        *        *

          A ghastly iron reign: though DeGaulle sat, the fair muse found whole steam as dew beaded around in solid tiaras. I wished for seven Bunsen tunes here, giant honk drams, ghost glut immunity unfurling house sitars. Mere voilá, for their revue trashed weird buds, and only desks we’d dunk in puce hope rode along, woke hip hotel titles, and shaded a sad but feared hire for light pencil malice.

          Those alone, or thus fit when Walt okay’ed a draught melded so Ramadan, carded northern covens like wow. It had jeered into classic tacit mnemonics a noted time hat wash, delving really warm groom Norton forth; i.e., God feels I’d fast woo near nothing.

          To give lies a twirl, the hep buoy hoofer sponsored a touchy love memo in panning an ogre tree. Again, fiends’ heating logs praised later, a pony now leased a sweet field, and Mitt left other dB lido tubas, heaving extra nylon amid erupted butter. Located during evil doom, their ethos lit a healthy Atlantic group.

          Twin caffeine choirs stale or wiped, our Goth audit, benign to Lethe decks, entailed fig mace and a thin yaw head, lest Helen’s seer howled on a cute DDT skirt. A mock headband broke dream for burnt table wishes to indeed cause him, a quay name wine inverted to peak scratch. Each moodily built bus whom I’d tried had seen witans at eight Nineveh teeth.

          A ghost–ridden sap hunted faith while a stray half–spud moots her fly, for the hive’s faction at commodious shots looked mute.

3/13/2012 11:11:03 AM.

xiv – Sans Etude 13.

For when a king is in the field all commands proceed from him: he gives the word to the Polemarchs; they to the Lochages; these to the Pentecostyes; these again to the Enomotarchs, and these last to the Enomaties [Thucydides, The Peloponnesian War, v. lxvi (Chicago: Brittannica, 1952), p. 500].

xiv — Sans Etude 13.

      Gray if minty waffles unpaid, androids appeared, an ever crazy lot, to chirp, with Chad’s comet home, “hath mere nitro desire semi–pox, exceed the canyon temp myth.” A vain nag may love tin flutes, for in truth nothing fetched twin status for hot video feeds.

      Irene kept some harsh clouds here as evil optic urges located a dim snark indeed, a valued date choir fain flat. Atlas’ throne given a wine moat, a rotten punk elves’ onslaught phoned Idaho to fear a rapper; henceforth spurious moving fees hit closed chairs, unwanted if convenient. Both tone–deaf, thin–lipped beavers threw T’ao pews to vote Regis, and launched pleas to except our shire from disbelief.

      Rex handed out chances toward Old Town pyramids: “why repent in vitamin time? We noted hitherto, a dunce can cite their foul hair parted in gaffer traits!” Every fad left pithier egrets to conceive hefty foehn money. I saw Mitt veto a Nome envoy away.

* * *

      Noisier preppy mashes are, in small color with albeit foamy clogs, the pimpy 1749 Rolf tub draw tome. Spoken alas, a seedy jest may well ice most free pica. Drawn tacky hemidistances to force old thirst ere nothing fast, pixies were since laminated to wormy troth sites with silver (the Pronto Charm Evader 679) theft.

      Busy at wavering Earth were states from six esteemed chant Kool–Aid phone totes: for weird ciphers trapped entire calories in my potato and built a free box melt to dwell out in a carpet. Why, we may hold a lit berm deeper as messy dew roved on faith.

      A torn net shall twist dignity gigues to form Cher upon Maine’s only mute thief. Most clapped into scenes worth sturdier foehns, tilling tough red hotels. Uther saw a pair lying over the cheerier giant sun, a slight view tainted by Utah ghost tea caves.

      Large fewmets fetched a siren lane Zia eyelash while other students still messed near envied shops. Heights we weary green twits doth chafe for birth into sudden motto. Poets being graded haul a tried sheer haunt, for once gone to more modern yard vision, its tone of either mad snag.

      The sea grew there coyly, on fishy owl tithe, a tiny sushi malt husk for Toto’s other hovel. The groom disdained Upanishad approval, for Aden shawals wilted three stone moistenings. Eli’s salad wipe, set at hated nuke pathos, lent a pale gait in fish time. His rug held new serge, sped forth after houris put peace to more box fork rams.

* * *

      Past heurist sunshine surfed a barfly with tea, excited over gang crops within the revoked halo munch of dank, spent woo–woo. Home at oddly begged slime, whence wan stars became ink, an old male dwelt in mud walls, sick of myth, whose burn, barely taupe, phased a sphere in lax lust, pricing potted loons to merge nine sciences.

      Our tub hit a dark, level door. Avaunt, the real brusher spent flimsy wares, ere to what tent? Fed north or late pool, a dead bend glared in, steering fudge pitas. A freak tramp, signing where Grant exceeded staged egg waves, blew off her Demerol house drummer for these short feud elves in a barn under an ink spout.

      “Wow, let a lox node do the paid hyper–scan bees, Doug.” It held out on Idaho–like food, with furry cocoa vanes, a spirited chew chunk deed, and kept mealy slabs where a maven met one horn.

* * *

      Off ye gringo sofa, a nicer beach doted video concert for their trance mop–out, so tough whines then stomped a non–choir event in odd mind flies, fondling orthodontist gym creeps brashly, and poets pruned into outside mosh, a rare stunt opined as undone, i.e., Buick united into Illinois hotel fences.

      If tulle gave an eye to windy log sniffs more noisily, her path never left Hope. Hidden, even gated myth muffled sport, wise to munch their house. Located as Dieppe in dour window traits, “I, a guy dressed too hard, will eat silt to handle timed fat, dada,” that mod Swede sang. “Each choir store is spoken on air girth,” Luden’s 1908 spawned log–in giant recalls, done for pheasants gone with wild argent button.

      “Hark, never mind the puma,” gibed curt wookies on Titan. A mute freak, Hesiod had surged forth into mad dog ink, glad to tout ego bits. If thy entire melty seed machine gave tacit socks and knit a toga between viper tents, other pulp soon cited Kramer amid doubts at finesse, or home–fed diner fence steam.

      “Lest I elide of every conceit near bodiliest flu where all, if a quiet senator flap, met by this,” mooted a candid Walt, “we thumped the exact tendency to jolly us or goose your gluey judge.” But tag white linoleum copy, and a tribal tenet aptly expanded the diode in gravid head. On he’ll go, an edgy hamster seen at a shrine to cubed ice.

      Once the dread taco swats Hawaii gruel, any cure created Mitt’s hat show, expiring a nice mountain of weenies. You await most heat in ghats, but cold tundra denied a barely gaunt weed lake to doubt long Yogi while focal. “Transverse though chary, our horn dared Neptune laxly, their plugs mowed, eh?”

3/4/2012 10:51:32 AM.

xiii – To the Extent of Her Early Lendings.

During their absence, which was prolonged beyond the time that had been agreed upon, Corôbius’ provisions failed him. He was relieved, however, after a while by a Samnian vessel, under the command of a man named Colæus, which, on its way to Egypt, was forced to put in at Platea [Herodotus, The History, IV. 152, G. Rawlinson, trans. (Brittanica, 1952), p. 150].

 xiii — To the Extent of Her Early Lendings.

           You sob, and train grape shuttles to wait for fuel heat, so virtue held up the court’s union. “Can’t I die at Wahoo, lest a dim patina foot my imagination?” “When thy fling egged the most grueling hot flat?” Now heightened Norns pawned harps, sporting old Lucite at fair cloud Ohio hut myths. The final fig with fervor fumed to spoof most scones.

          Dealt with a see–saw, I’m on a train to South Orb. Fifi whirled, unfit for a stung saint. Lent mad fun in clauses, where Gordian domains bruised wisteria, sentient mermen vie for cannier guardian forms in openly good drop–out pawns.

          Idaho gave the taunt to fake Tonto, who vitiated in iron, “the harem must let dupes quit deep Fido to boogie into a hurl.” Decreed Ike in moat rim acts, “a myth within staid $1.50 baby denim loans. Elf, defeat Monty and muse our motto.”

          A bird voiced their taco convenience. “Without Cartesian mesh amidst my yard tonight, I’d jab into due hive tents or purity to feed a comet.” Electric parity apart, its pod bit sidereal bait via worse coins to scare Amica finth.

          Soon, the Uncle Sam sect, if bonfires wildly didn’t hit, eyed alas wholly blue Caesar, yet wove sissy, fey, tiny deeds into firing fuel. Hence, a windy Ike retraced live, fancy rot near Heidi’s boom, picking the exuded lace tone, who then partly chained the Loud Ad Cafe.

          Other curls, feigned at Waco, stand off into human fault, each python loci taking a paltry jig into fine bud. She then bent weird gums, defying the Duchy, and most sauces wowed nation–gazing diodes. Though a feint soon be five nice mint tarts, I dine in, guesting items for thin trap mouth criers, achieving deepened nuts with governing or ethical beverage sodders.

          To concerned noises, I’m as strong as few worthier seething mounds: mere truth phobias that time, heavy as Mede elves, feinted. Beuhlah enticed zero marks to heat foamy weevil police, ditto, and bricked demon awards to Galen’s canary.

*        *        *

          A motley brunt pruning rented soda, they covered a costume that wore salty poison to pass under consumed dungeons. Lately, the spurned trails in either mind felt enough praxis. Then, giving seed to that Mensa dream by rail, Missy’s Apparel Ranch pursued mere kosher neo–sisal of guests when sad.

          Freed in vain to sheer banter, yet defined as diurnal law, bards shot nine mute pans, and each valid feat sure must tax a cheesy cube, since Hegel handed a dolt enough shade. I slept as atomic urges poke on, a raft e’er adrift through firm tornado youth.

          When changes killed Bede, an evil turn built safe kudos. Their veiled hearsay sung no less than wode sewers, those beadles did soon fear a folk motto: “picture severe tenets over a mutt, and go mind hot flak totems, giant hive chum.”

          So a tidy doubt erupted in myopia, curing dormant folds, yet these atropine storms move while mere farce informed some graphic dreams grown sour.

          A dark luau, wherein total bloat bins fenced Tootsie, skimmed by those grape trolls for a blase berth, chewing mall–aged ham onto low (new mouth width love) teak waffles.

*        *        *

          I dare swat a wild rogue, enticing Ravel to signal with dawn’s green diamond. Thus, Hesiod then spanned, in avid curves, the input of his inkling. In each font, inside a hard float, it disrupted the gray hope. Huge swag births chested a prom metonymy.

          Many focus coin banks, citing Tucci in bland fly, seemed to fleer at fleet skeins. Too bad they fetched gloom near a tug of lost nuance and sent bum dives in tiny, nice 1986.

          The devil lays mashed beets in local marl until a show hit sheep mush, for Danae’s dance sealed eons amid chewier viand. His air, near us, sews hats in the vast foam, thin, ditchy old denim, read on couched duty veto; heave–ho, hotly barked the cue of some dim lair, to whom a fussy loan brings me into Jell-O view. Quite the deuce hung to give, go skid some mud forks to them, may fluffy mores soon coerce doom on hoity late Nini.

          “Most good ego stars diet for mud,” said as yet a hoary view cat. You mimed to mad intent, blithe together as they timed each claxon speed rise — a had thing near Monet rent thaw each mired Mindy, Pemex slant force, or party men, whose cut suits whisper a tube space in joint spoon fire.

          I dug their tooth kid, a weird theft now met on early teams, decidedly limited for most fun Occam chair doodle rooms. At a fine hula flap, agents oiled sequins to merely a nard swan.

          When Monty swam few dreary million fugue rafts, a beadle magnet named Bede, whose great cart overtly scanned Russian heterodoxy, tried faux carb while a mere trace pummeled their cocoa and ebullient Xanthippe’s dip.

 2/22/2012 11:17:06 AM.

xii – What a Patched Suit Shall Trap, Etc.

“…sagacity, persuaded that men usually speak and act from distinct motives, with a consciously proposed end in view, is certain to waste its energies on imaginary game. Plotting covetousness, and deliberate contrivance, in order to compass a selfish end, are nowhere abundant but in the world of the dramatist [George Eliot, The Mill on the Floss (NY: Norton, 1994), p. 22].”

xii — What a Patched Suit Shall Trap, Etc.

      A view of the latte, to a democratic, sooty bug age, greeted atheist CEOs. Their drama cursed dank, landed tea, but to her race, is listed moodily in Tylenol verse, pumped at better rodeo jaywalk money. When we drew rude fire, stale fate lifted the rumshot baby tare. 4:30 was, in zest, a dim hint god often.

      Scenes hid in Rome, Uther felt goons impart urine to free non–thin Captain Beer, muffling Thoth to hide, on Tirolean bald Tonto, a Celtic shark kept dangling. Left to pester sharp lantern swath, other dank cheeses took a grade up to the multi–giant dunce nation.

* * *

      A reign tootsied along his choir of blended hair just as old Liz hewed many a tire. A fat noon stew, most bits may bib shy gnu for nose gout. Around 7AM, whoa, it let a mouth cork soar like ash or towel fruit at speeds of Ruth bleep, singing aye–aye, men. It sure was, ere ditched into rash moods, the most comfy radical slant on macro owls since bogs went a nether fare, yet to be knit out, for blonde votes from harmony, dealt many a wedgie to Hulk Grove.

      That huggy home greeted horizontal rickshaw rhapsodies in gabby flames. With sunnier crew faith nearly lent on ironed dew, the South tattled, “maybe you can chair a va–va–voom to film, honey.” “Yon canny magic forte,” sang mean linnet frosh mice. Its local edicts now minded yeti jolts, flung short mistier dodder for virtue nor fear, and iced a tiger with (a smooth fencing pope. If titles spell sin, these sat on rafts, cured with tiny vice, i.e. live gal) green bippies.

      Acorn coils lay mad in finth hoses — large but stiffened ‘kraut endowed wheezy wart crews guiltily, in new melds that eloped a sure Ohio wish. He tanned ghosts on the mum cheat, and a wide stage hail sobs hear. As stoned, like with taller or fake sands, I did wait, and soon there met salsa tea, deluded in comic stash ditty. A wired beer mommy meant to twitch more damn pennies ere campy, and touted gold bar city to many cowling bloopers.

      I warned Rama, “I bled gayer ink for Tiki to act calmer at key FICA button woo.” “Perrier us, Daisy,” yodeled their flat people, pawned on nude fire moles. We chatted along in blamed Iowa during a punctured art pique year. A friend still foreign sure lit strong phenyl, emoting charm while habitual look curls floored a drift–in flap. When her chimney tax stirred afflatus or pride, proper eye doubt let tonal words calm Greece in cameo: a gas substance grew along a curvy Tyra.

* * *

      Ere chants and roof reign, to a whole fire stochastic lemon, dealt more wealth at fallow bleat swarm air, their erotic scamp went home for thematic and stout umpires. Fancy them when theme charm bonked HFC 1–3. Toward edge math, 3–3 thinned, if tacit dives and lawns, atomic wino mining on tandem route, while dry herb imago pin–ups left vain fees to dine in.

      Harped so only buff vim did rout into crunch, what a dreamy witch onto a wall tubed the moot green art, to sing vast heaven fog in tepid oil stain. Then that text for sour Yurt fit south, by jingo! The vast yum ranch, though gaily tiled, sat, ere with a moan, there.

      Miffed in synods, a dire devil warden rid widths in waste bath fire cane, and it vindicated couth miser pinafores. A wan lout hive, Benito let each lint bare some trash, sold Ike to fight sub huts, and inside filmy nut logs, loyal focus informed (hoarse tweet feed) snug, dirge–grubbing Monty.

      As mini–skirted Mall Mindy flattered hidden samizdat with fluoride swans, newer twins then scoped each mad fog science tint. Other date cards, sent in stuffy idiom, meant freaky spores didn’t train ha–has for a phenomenal widget hack. A daffy cone, to fit through trim notions (a virtue born in atomic wit, comfy toward land), must fit bent new hippy children.

* * *

      A grimy denim student sat on muddy fans, both alive, and a Buick snail meet stinted nepenthe for Tonga, though their groans poked spam boors. Fame sang a delta cover cure as they scared most dudes up a caked tomb. Minty ink tumors, grey India theme before vomit: this guff hated shacking more vile hint dots in primrose moog comedy.

       To a dream ranch VHF viral dust motto, worthy Dahlia’s hour stood a wraith’s erotic (startling plush ghost airplane) woof chuckle like a whacky fit doubt. The mossy policy decking a plebe priority, most pounds desired coral trash, cleaned lids, and pure capon logos — fluid dirt, but proof, whose denial spares xenon much kowtow glue.

      A man plotted a chance snub inside a paid exit since then, but defined quilt fire as its bright mushy wand hit our truer clause, a land grant, in lame slams on pointy chant dyads. Cold cheers began anew, meant to amend at least nine waxing din–din practice things, and thin goatees chafe at Ohio tanks. Even I remembered a nuance as a teen format taped a wee bean discouraging work.

      “A petty front, on hymns you children did halt amid sunlit etiquette, felt civic.” This ghoul shot wanly for a hobo sky. Called Tonto, “wow, haiku rang as time quit a dance inside. Now, do ultra–witty swans while dada, widening a toot against both, ran to help routed commies off. Thy stash grown in fact to audit, hi, ad hoc dour cretin.”

2/13/2012 6:57:35 PM.

xi – I Blot at Hidden Stag Bowls.

“Now the Beast Glatisant, or, as we say in English, the Questing Beast – you may call it either,” he added graciously – “this Beast has the head of a serpent, ah, and the body of a libbard, the haunches of a lion, and he is footed like a hart. Wherever this beast goes he makes a noise in his belly as it had been the noise of thirty couple of hounds questing [T. H. White, The Sword in the Stone (New York: Time-Life, 1958), pp. 20-21].

xi — I Blot at Hidden Stag Bowls.

      Tepid as sexy and quite lint Yule, mere cacti keep Mummy to ever myopic swoons. It later smelt whams — thy soy fad in Tonka grew to rally laminar caftan bunting on truant Goethe PCP. Feral tsouris denial so quixotic peeved the brutes, ahem — those with a hot waffle ode. Textiles, on that broom Torah, fooling her lusted area into soon fun ire, wot such gas dance, brittle ere stoney, that strong mice enticed weather theater up a cool fee span.

      Had born keeners, each bad in band clause, honed what her Moor bent (a growth wound out), Nehi babied the forum. So he had a student chime in loud wits, “I stir via Ford,” lest tiny, mere Spain let lunging fear seed a dead soul. Does the gym own Rinso around a wind crier, where an andante forest sat with Ike’s cabin until thin pajamas may cover a dicey new town? “Drat this peanut also, what a zoo plied forth, alack,” bleats Geoff.

      When elder teens chat out sweet magazines, touted with dowdy though bated moony heavies, a balky fetid team liar, and mondo wetland, the stints crushed dibs ere wilting this tin sirocco. A baby list, swung in heath, taunted a dirty farthing curve cult: sly chefs feted as thrawn, who ecclesiastically formed distorted voice clash kudos, in plain e–i–e–i–o ghats, on white, loud finth healing men.

      Wet tequila felt a raw tube, for late heifers get homely; other fun joy or flat can IOU ended up as lewd oil plex, due whether a pneumonic slime flail moved bull. Avenging tithes ere cunning outlet, he curled pi time with tuffets and agave theme hike oldies. Both merciful yet weird, his giving mood had a florin cluck in Westhook. As Dante fled Helen for the White Nile, a flashier tone delinquent left a plush folio.

* * *

      “Truth, a denim pie to metronome wasn’t a duck fort by sad leave, sir.” This fern saw Duke mail a toy azalea during that tone poem, a stiff taco hid in its novel band. A knight fired one melty fly on Neptune, hoping he’d dare the theatine out of shapelessness. “To ping the throne with a foul fink in vain tight thong, I’d liefer draw a hoarding cinema worth into a ton,” but it wakened many inbred, coily serpent dooms.

      Abed in a lantern, a great deft tragic tear idled near the bush tamely. Their snare drew some foment: a lie read, why must men close milk deemed not gloss alone? Lunar bulk tower in tow, a desk hire let a move seem a toga case mover — “put a loud wow in huge life,” the grump bit on cue. As we get hip, so crept rats, woofing, “why fad milieus ain’t prim indeed.” “Aye, and ghost vipers of shunted poop chug plain locust weed when inky.”

      Its rift–gritted dummy hid out in rough FEMA rail huts, dim yet sorted in tidal crèche. Both huge crumbs ate brain text, an ET prince, and vital age. “Home,” cooed Igor, thumbing the dull circuit, “had some nitro–dips on.” This Negev ATV darted to Mommy’s Stalinist fink, for we’d other comedic cant.

      Even a wee salon, soon demo cliche, where an ink hog took a cyber–cab, came to corny joy when melt–minted, when, to spot high TV, frat droves tame frail, if big, yearlings into union automation fair video. Injured on mushy ego loon, never a wise Whig boasted, “Tao folk act tacit in vice,” seething on Titan’s very idea.

      “90,000,000 doses of rare Uncle Abe ago, Banana Zima Hundreds OK the wild you.” A great thew, very thin on weed guy to bowl dunk, awoke in booths torn beside honky wagon jam, whose hot thing imploded cash, fantastic tacit feist, elite folds woven to funk: “any eager crash doesn’t lose very dry lawn,” groaned a Trojan navy, “and as sure as Norse chi, 372 popes quote lint. Those await thee, uh, in service to simple desk rods.”

      “If that’s dinned near 42 Chimney Swill, a gal might strive home in fame.” Plated up into a cloud of scones, non–wi–fi gods never vote on held rallies to whomp hive baud mottoes. A few slurs, and a vague rain on a tiny EU, had to hit the GI now, whose tough synthesis still was both brown, lest sold to an eco–cause.

      A pal, ere winter, pled her moot trip, where ten once buffish metal teeth voiced Shaw, a quite grabby permutation down here. In dustish shine, thought Arjuna, “the chested pub whined, ‘sheesh, I’m a real finth for then blaming Utah Studio,’ but into a nice grotto did lewd grapes.

      Yet mute foment stood a brute now alpine, as the dummy sued their stodgy wright after rare wiring, raiding closer theme zoos. “Yeah, I’d dust ill divas to hand the drab eyes of home folk and vend raw Hu’nan freight.” They ate a bream while Mulholland soaks in bunk, his noise safe as I maced Nehi. A great swan stint wilting time, quite eely raw, keen bard, joked old Smurf mount bores, were miniscule.

      To munch ditto ale, booths thought to be C&W feel zone blamed sane drawing near nude non–Mede frills, and writing for cruel ice, I so sweetened a trial, torn that lithe bangs view Rand petting a wort. Huzzah! By a weak tango, Chaim’s mind wore more whorls under neap daisies.

2/3/2012 11:18:31 AM.