Restoration of Ordeur.

 

In our segment of the Lountical there's a standing order, to the effect that if one or more steadfast partially obscured membranes is to be braided within a stube tremple, then a graded innocuous torment will result in the extinguishment of any vapid fire that we insist on provoking in the mist. But, failing that--and this is how it always feels--the temperamentual signage posted at the Solid Partners' bondage site can be read in only one way. And that is to move extremely slowly in a westerly direction, all the while training one's gaze on a cubical hazelnut barnstorming league without which a random perch could have come undone years before now.

When we feel a textual wind in the space behind our ears, it will be seen as a time like any other, that is to say, if the prison within which our minds labor is for the first time to be identified and likewise if our tendencies to truncate the final syllables of inferior words in the presence of appalling supervisors, then the game we'd like to play will come to naught and our lineage will recoil in horror as any reasonable community members have a right to expect. The way we get them is to fabricate an artificial wampum bantry and place it just outside the reach of whatever prancing Hugenot will come-a-calling while we dither and delay any accountability and lounge to our heart's content by the pool of our own flagrant derision. It will grip them by their noses and not let go for Heck or a surfeit of liquids. A transom, in fact, you'll see.

But now, when our burden becomes a prissy night shade of dullness, the game our keeper plays is enough to wake several people's children on the wrong side of midnight. They might not be so understanding if we are forced to tell them what really happened on the night years ago when everyone tasted the same thing without warning or apology. The lengths to which some folks will go to avoid involvement in pageants of stridency is, quite frankly, baffling to persons of ablomative heritage. It seems like they've got a cusp on their shoulder which just won't let go. We could approach them with a solution, but all that would happen is that someone might get sick of waiting inside a car without access to barium. And that would be a shame. Because now the shemp is in the wind. And the wind is creating a new opportunity for folly. And 'folly' is my middle name. Except it's spelled 'F-A-L-L_E-Y-E'. And that's how you'll know me: by the tooth I keep in my shoe for a day just like this. Sorry, but that's all I'm permitted to recite at the moment, okay?

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A Statement of Personal Confidence.

 

Over and above the times I've been asked to lift three or four false boxes into place--and there were so many times I can barely keep track--I always knew I had it in me. And this was no trick. The emblems are sitting right there; you can see them for yourself--heck, you can even touch them! I was being taught the intricacies of the 'braiding problem'. But for my inability to hold my breath for more than three seconds while perched in a room, everyone in our group has been told repeatedly not to second guess internal weather and its intricacies, both physical AND emotional. For my own part, the erasures come quite naturally. In fact, it's the only time of day when the bleeding stops of its own accord. Beyond that, I feel as if someone has handed me some kind of invisible icon of innate sensibleness. But, at that very moment, a heartbreaking incident from the recent past reared its not-so-pretty head in the form of a rather non-inconspicuous wastrel who once accompanied my Father, the late Reverend Estes Persklin on a Mission stunt in Communist Romania in October 1983.

What happened was, this stooge, who goes by Ijin Fomerk, was set to adjust one of the rapidly disintegrating control mechanisms which are alleged to keep out team on the up-and-up. He insisted on adding certain invisible colors to the transition mix, thereby enabling passing units to make the leap without a telltale incident. I knew that he was redolent of fraudulent bookbinding and that his successor was even worse, if you can imagine that. During those years, I always liked to keep myself fully vetted in the eyes of indigenous ice-sampling rectors. It was something which I normally thought about while on the john. In this particular incident, I noticed someone in a nearby holding facility had made it his business to pretend that he was about to send me a lukewarm signal-of-intent. I made like the 'normie' altar boy I still am at heart and got in touch with his parents through an unmotivated third party. This is when all the 'trouble' started. Because no sooner had I click 'send' on the email than a very 'moist' nurse who'd been on-staff for barely a few seconds at best burst in and started giving me the royal 'what-for'. Thus you can see that I had very little choice. There was just no way that I could go on living this kind of a lie. It all came out. Everything. And now look at me. You don't want to know. Why is that?

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This is the only title which makes sense.

I've noticed a steadiness in her face. By all means, 'thinking twice' is not my forte. But when she seeks to enact a liveable tantrum, the feet which carry the body are mine no more. Even so, the pressure that her idle chatter exerts on the psychic resources of the 'common man' will go a long way to helping us find ourselves besieged anew. The parlor is where a tramp of her stature can safely ruminate while the fabric of space-time is folded in upon itself once again, rendering multiple banterings as just so much febrile slather. And this, for one so young, is quite the coup de grace. Tell him what it may and I will help you adjust to our newly released prayer schedule. This is what they won't tell you. I just did. Now you can try one yourself. Only if you feel well prepared should one so shocking reveal the abfactual troof.

The dream of a living mordant is more than your average sun-kissed Rector can ever hope to hold tightly inside a nuclear partition. The brim of our salvation is what will not be secured without the failing permission of a working class subaltern. In that footwear, anyone who strives for balance will seek a friend where no indolent shufflehound would ever think to look. But if I depart a lakeside bungalow and trick a fellow sufferer out of a cotton dollar, then shame on those who raised my standard in a ploy for isochondrial relief. These are the types of imbroglios which unaffiliated scientists always fail to consider. Their time is spent in a precious nightwad. And the circles they embellish are never more than a pantific mile in our Southerly finworm. As one who has guarded their in-laws during an electrical outage, I don't need any lessons from the fallen court. Any rope we find will seek its monitored fulfillment. Of this we seek no assurance. Without our love, the baby is a goner. Please pray for Marvin Butler.

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