🚀 go-pugleaf

too.

Quickly, though I dimly fathom these days' stark pattern of crimson
paces that you've gone off again to that resort which harbors you no
ill-windedness during non-virtual book of hours times, where second
husbands ishishly are crushed (and I was not roller-skating at the
time you sent me a bed of red-life-eviction notices but merely rushing
off to scrawl my days away, a bit further away, to that softly-into-
placid-third movement that keeps me dodging unthrown plates which do
not fail not to shatter upon the undamaged and unmarked wall -- where
are you tonight, e.g.), motorlogged in these rewilations which are
yrs, unmisgivenly, I'll attempt to clasp you real time to say, "yr
dulciment dulcimer tones are cacophony, but my [jellyfish] is real
enough", which will be followed by several long pauses of intermittent
lengths by which to measure cavaliers and cadavers upon the stares
of people who just don't understand that, when you've got to crush
chalk in your hands, you've got to crush chalk in your hands.  Might
I request that you kindly stop making SBCCVM fall down on its hands
and knees, so that I could please stop sending messages stating that
you haven't done something which you have but have withheld in the
interests of riddling me with holes?

Untolden goldy as to whence might cop it I, I pass on to you a sincere
complement and appreciation at yr ability to run linear-in-parallel
blah-blah-blah -- O! Would That I Could Have Been A Po-Et!  Who's to
sing you awake beneath yr pane during dawnings of new knifefightingly
good hackneyed days?  Not as long ago, oddly, as 1927; but, it occurs
in cold-blooded fetes of apperception of yr good graces (secret and
swiveled, entered alighting upon all the half-beens and jackanapes
in the room) to inquire: Do Tuesdays still fail to amount to a whole
hill o' beans in this crummy world?  [If the LIBlads come a-knockin',
will you tend to (at least) the open wounds?]  My concernation from
fear that you'd not bowingly take my meaning as literal as I could
have eschewed: if you'd "once-you-have-fo(u)nd(l(ed)(y))-me", might
I inquire *where*?  Small details.  No Thanks to Salamander for in
quotating a featured and valued source of the Best Of East-Anglia.

So, no more suspence, let's move to the array of roles (DAF'll be most
proud, athair-like): tell me, in bored, hushed tones, of the fares
of Norwich as they chummed with Chelsea today, and I dispense of a
small fortuning in c-notes and do-nots-tragically-ignored ("I'm a
gamblin' M") to the very encephelonelyness: banish me to the pits of
hell, deny me my freedom, it makes no matter, as long as you are lost
to those same.

Unlike Lot, y'see, I %like% salt (the Enemy edible indeed).

M.