Paper and Paste? Really?!?

 

The paper and the paste I have been given are for later. The dapple-rod is for this moment, and this moment alone. I regularly meet just outside the wall with those who seem somewhat pleasing, what with their mannerisms and something else besides. When one wonders about ambient room temperature, I can't help but look at him coldly. This isn't an event which inspires confidence among my surviving forebears, of which there are maybe two or three at the top of my box. I'll go one better and open it myself if you give your word that a name will never be provided, save under a District-wide enforcement decree. I'm debating whether to tell you exactly where I will ask you to sit once we get started. It could be a total wash if you're brought in too soon. You do have kind of a 'funny' look. Just not the 'ha-ha' kind.

When the local people become inconsolable, the paper and the paste are set to be my 'go-to'. The rags which were all the rage three or four years ago have come and gone and now no one worth his salt can find the time to frame the entire area in a grid to make our portions stand alone when the light fades.  A barely consonant feeding-post helps everyone get settled. I lead them via individual halters and they seem contented enough that any fear of swarming amounts to one of us taking on something which is decidedly over our collective head. I can't quite place the guy who told me just the other day that he'd found an empty binder in a park not far from here. This is important because I've had my doubt from the beginning as to when, or even if, we have any right to expect a priority notice. It's not every day that you have to compile a series of factors. This could get ugly. Please bear with me.

While we've been waiting in real time for our house to be completely demolished, I've been staying downtown at a rooming house normally frequented by high-flying nobodies who're just trying to get a grip. As if that's something that strikes a bell! The children have been placed behind a local Catholic girl's school where they can busy themselves with makeshift projects and possibly even earn extra cawthorns for all the trouble they've been. In my day, we took to flying through windows with a snippet of torn fungus as backup. I'd say it was worth every penny, except that when the car stalled smack dab in the middle of the Lincoln Tunnel, my wife decided that that would be the perfect time to perfect the timing of her outbursts. I'd like to say that I've never had it so good. But, before I say that, it'd be more appropriate if people on your level could investigate personal growth modules. Someone may have gotten the wrong idea, among much else. Why so gloomy?

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