We now know who is involved.

 

They taught me how, but not when, to lie. The training was received with a smile not to be noticed by whatever uncomfortable adversary might move into the foreground and admit defeat in today's playground. The love and dignity, as having given our words a stem-frothing aspect, can (and will) no longer hold the wan target aloft, an occasion of plyable toy-wisdom particle fraud. A measure which is always of a unique ratio, is sure to batter in principled duos with the gently rising craft of one so belivid as meets the grace of tofts. The tradnastitive amalgam of trufe, replete inside olleyways abade the wainscotting, is sure to hold dramastic plauditures when easing a measure of cave-like operating injectives, but the wife of our minch-haus, flagrant and taudney, one could not help stressing, the hairline breaching above all whose nose is a shallow victim's paleface perch.

We are given to a wand's purr as the crapid effluvia is seen to dictate each flange's polymerized ovectic ransom. But the trime to a wolferd, adknowledged and fissured to a scrim of fare-thee-won'ts, is draining the pate of frofulent chimps as only Nelson can. But 'why?' is a count we fold, the drippage to pace Onan's wickery puffed stochastic floor. If ever the delay seen in fields should be felt as the disaster it isn't, then my martial plague, attenuated in frisky allotments, will hold a pin to the nape of infamy! A chersh! And feribault trash palates acleft the furbles! We train our own reducers and pick out jaunts with emaciated pleasers, the nub of all solemn ploughshares. Delighted we mask, but a sorry induction of our leaky wigstumps turns the entire village into a stable offering of intrepid histamine scamps.

You have eaten our papers. But our hope is for your filial accretion of a fine marbelized dust. The pelucrid vinitor abvolves crime to a light of weaves. And grow as it must, our dupe is foursquare operational as a blunted mood stems the tribe. The nose you crave is only ever our daily marketing plod, or so one vicious, winsome lad likes to pretend while home is approached with a keening holyferd nightgram of truth. A bezel or three will get you one. Our farmers approve of your likely liminal basking hut. But a brain? That's just too fucking hot!

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Line Management Schema.

 

There is a placement of lines in our local atmosphere that I'd say I was starting to get used to if not for a persistent oily rash inside my second forehead. It's not only the ratio of light to shading, but for the sound-threading itself, especially when it seems to swirl, that my very mentation assumes the status of a negligently perforated wig pattern.

But the disadvantages of making any kind of definitive statement at a time like this is that no one would think it wise to tell me where it could end, or even if a person in my position could be likely to recover a practical reason to maintain a paltry modicum of hardheaded, yet modern, religious affiliation. If all goes as it has been alleged to have been planned, by this time tomorrow I'll be ensconced in seat 32B on Amtrak's Kalthorn Moverm, with Jake and Kathy by my side, a portion of dainty comestibles at the ready and a reliably engrossing selection of reading matter to take my mind off the predicament I can't seem to shake rid of.

It's my name and I'm entitled to it, is all I ever said. Now that the 'professional people' are so involved, it'll be a 'day at the beach' if I can ever see my way straight again to stare a false God in the mouth and smile without leaning into a torpid, if sultry, breeze. It's because of the trim that was applied to my standing field that I find this stigmatized atmosphere so impressive. A wave of fealty has been shown to engage folks like me in a grimy, indigent spree of wisdom theft at distance.

The program begins when we are shown to our personalized crates. Even when the likely announcement is made that everything we need will be placed neatly within, a rising sense of incompletion will hold center stage at each non-professional tournament I'm forced to attend. Despite what some of the younger readers may choose to believe, when I was a kid this wasn't how things generally went. For starters, each suspiciously telltale line would be followed to its very end. Try that today and see where that gets you! You won't be disappointed, I'm sure! But even now, with the ever rising ring of phagistry overwhelming this very continent, there is still hope that a fear of waitlessness will usher in a New Era of Sun in Our Brain. It won't be soon enough. Have a good lunch. Please stop it.

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