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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