Minor Discrepancies Should Be Considered 'Par for the Course' (Thank you).

She and her silent, but deafening, unit, often overtaken as a pair, are given into a zone of words, which, this time of year, are rarely defined, except in the breach of a witness's contract. I have held her as a shield against my closest foreign relation who defies the weakest clods that our troubled world has to offer. Whenever she gripes about those taller than her, and expresses the wish that they would exit without fuss, I remind her of a time not so long ago when she agreed to meet me near the property of our common ancestor. He led a revolution in the fashions of his day. It was long over before those who would go on to form my very vicious panel would engage the nerve to install a rank codicil at the insistence of a pettifogging farmer's loan officer. Often in these matters, someone will go on to say the one thing that everyone else is afraid to utter. Now, even I have one.

When a person I knew as a baby grew up to become my flight surgeon, I could count on the fingers of one hand the times she asked whether I had any idea how unusual that was. It showed that she cared even when I caught her stealing a framed picture of an unwanted table. I insisted that I could elevate her legs. She pronounced me a source of evil. I gave her the benefit of the doubt. Then I had a sandwich. Now I'm looking to hide a small pellet somewhere near the property I own in a neighboring township. It won't be easy because some folks around there pay very close attention. You'd think they would once in a while strive to give a different impression. But you'd be wrong. And that wouldn't be the first time, I'm afraid.

Now when, through no one's fault at all, a group of strangers is stranded on a nearby continent, the phrase they use to describe their feelings is one that I myself once used. But that was before all notes were consolidated into a trim packet. The safest course is to double up your billing profiles and hope for clearer sightlines. If you act as if an entanglement is one for the books, you might find yourself to be more correct than is commonly supposed. It strikes some of us that in our current predicament a freshly  composed lament would hit the spot. If anyone tries to remove that kind of spot they could experience a troubling sensation. There's no pill for that, is all I'm saying. Try not to leak this passage. 

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Sonic Electrified Polish Fish Wind.

A Devastatingly Bold Account Wherein the Final Word Is Guaranteed to Ignite Contentious, Full-Throated Debate.

I am visibly moved when I see how softly she pronounces my third unknown name and even though her lips are never seen to move, a recording will never lie. As I sit at my abominable desk, surrounded by a chocolatier's bevy of puffs, I struggle to remain in an easy balance of approach and deny, my head swirling with the uncomplicated covenants arrived at by means of lethal force in the springtime of living. As she places her left finger through an abrupt opening in a wanton shell, I take the opportunity to boldly transfix her arrogant scofflaw, only to find him hanging by a whisp in a feathered cave of some note. Not without some significant residue of hidebound distress, I am forced to re-house a team of waning petrified officiants while my most recent tooth extraction comes to mind in a reverie of ironclad dissociation.

By the time I've finished installing her device in my pod, I realize that the voice I once thought I would recognize anywhere is now struggling for completion in barely an inch of palatable liquid near a home of fond repute. As I grasp the lever it's been my honor to possess, I can't seem to shake the impression that whichever course I'm emboldened to  fabricate will take me only so far in the direction of a barely negligent  tussle. In this case, as in no others, the temptation to prevail is outweighed by the ingestion of a juvenile snail I received as a gift from a coterie of intubated Mohicans. We've all dreamed at one time or another of watching the 'red man' learn to sew. And if you're anything like me, you'll get what you asked for, but not in the order that would coincide with each and every one of your picayune expectations. Not to worry; in all likelihood this won't make you grow a third head.

After what seemed like an honor-bound cleague of clock time, I moved with all due haste to engorge her string with my mammouth pump and score the final six points to put us both over the top of the lip of engagement that we find waiting at a precarious angle to life in a pond. I tell her, 'these are my trinklets' and then I ask her, 'do you know the Ambassador?' She falls skyward and I now realize, as if for the first time, that I'm out of money (and cough drops). Now I resolve to shelter in place and await devastation. The luck of the paw is mine. This is how I use it. Prakky. 

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The Time for Speculating is Over!

In the smallest of the openings I heard myself singing. The voice though, was one that I only remember hearing in the time before my Father learned to swim. Otherwise certain plans were thought to have been abandoned. On a piece of paper now fashioned to resemble a plantard-hook, each seized item was described in a detail greater than necessary. As a word is given, a gem is deposited; now my hand accepts intimations of a looming pall. Through the appearance of a gray field, the wife of gravity-writ-large pleads with an inconsolate soldier to ice a finer person than she or her habitually tardy viscount can  any longer countenance.

As the openings assume a greater place in our peasant intrigue, the one thing that is never foretold is how our impressions are modulated to an outer framework which appears solid but is really filled with the type of ice that repels static at height. I am told by those who have already exited that, as the breath elongates, each focused ideogram will be one to dodge if the story is to become itself not complicit in the opening of the Slenge. I inform them that each time I have given the threat to drain a willing protemptor, my range of failings no longer delimits the optimism of which I have become duly afraid.

Now as  I leak any and all foreign legislative treasons into a watery balm of saturated knowing grintonelles, I find that my place in the executive moulding spore is disappearing even as those that I eat are freshly plaited with a marsh-bound triculate for additional winning. They give us our own plan. It's up to those on the outside to deliver an effort to lift without being willing to love each harmonized person into an obdurate non-compliance. They will be held as vicious and quite possibly deaf as nails. This is where my fire-light will obscure a gently gradated pilgrim. Only the people of our Valley need to demonstrate a facility with novel fingerings to avoid the type of pressure which spelled our doom in the final passage. One last question: Where do I sign? 

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Exemplary Bensonite Protocols.

Each of us is expected to bring at least one of our bensonites into conformance with a lurid arrangement sponsored by Proctor Jonathon's Office of Special Incidents. For my part, this time of year brings with it a touch of pheumy memories of risk-taking in search of long lost tracking ploys. Of the three bensonites under guard in my kitchen wisk, I select the bravest one in order to minimize traumatic wind-shear. As I carefully remove the covering—not an easy task even in the best of times—I notice a small yellow disk protruding from the underside near the microdot. Since there are no hairs, I figure the only safe course is to retrieve my shotgun from the car before I begin the final boxing operation.

Once the needle is set to Zero, I make my final call to Proctor's assistant who reveals the last secret word I will ever need. This is because today everything will be wiped and I can start anew as if all that's never happened can be approached as a collapsible fontade. My former instructor has been living inside an aluminum A-frame near Harcourt Plaza and won't be able to supply any more ballast until the following week at the earliest. Therefore I hope to announce my retirement to an assembled crowd of non-abusive Control Agents when they meet me at the pier for the final send-off.

It appears, though, that something might not be going according to plan. The wicket which I've relied on to avoid impaling the gyroscope on my left knee while executing the prescribed gesture has been found to be missing its soporific lending tube, possibly leading to many transitional vessels becoming lost inside an active volcano near an unknown second Equator. This calls for quick thinking on my part since I'm scheduled to go on trial in Manhattan Superior Court a week ago Tuesday and I want to look my best. That includes a false linoleum pocket square and a berfmire 'members only' club tie. Without them my goose is royally fooked and I'll look like a hooverized bastard in need of a sound thrashing. Not that it would hurt to go outside and search for a lost puppy. Just saying..... 

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Notes on Correct Meeting Etiquette.

The correct meeting area, if there ever was one, would have to offer the opportunity to receive a novel coating which to some appears as if its taste would resemble, in a vague way, what some have identified as a prehistoric persimmon. While everyone agrees that there's enough doubt to be freely distributed to all even moderately uneasy adults, the pride of place felt by those of us from the 'inner hill' goes quite a far piece to explain why some in our Unit just, 'aren't having any'.

If the people you've been told about fail to arrive either in a timely fashion or without the required acoutrements, then the mandate that each and every one of us has been given will be seen to sputter in the wind and assume a threatening aspect in the minds of at-risk youth and their various hangers-on, advisors and other purported malcontents. If we wish to get in the vehicle driven by a swarthy intellectual of the 'old school', then we are carefully admonished by a representative of the local Chaplaincy to refrain from delivering our verdict on 'things as they seem' until we have examined every last scrap of paper which protrudes from his lost folder and eased our way into a simple method of achieving the limited success we've come to expect.

Our patronage of various unsavoury local endeavours has now come to an indelibly screeching halt, even as we pant with undue anticipation of life under a new regime. In the waning days of this or any Scotch braggart's intersectual bonhomie, the ruling emotion of the day resembles just another whimpering telltale  barzintus fiasco in a way which shows all concerned the proper method to fold a napkin during a forgone liquidity crisis. I will agree in as soft a way as I know how, to grant a clemency rainboat into the jaws of a color-blind vagrancy shortfall. But if and when the pleasant aroma of mildly sleazy odes to dainty property seizures fills our enraged nostrils with the scent of things put on hold, then we will have no choice but to beat a path to your likely door and signal a warning shot across your neo-natal prosperity gospel. This is why it never ill behooves a person in good stead with the reigning ethos to refuse to fail to encumber a lame boss's pet with the pent-up reticulations of a life lived as if anything mattered at all. In this we join you in a fervent advocacy of the last traces of good will in semi-hazardous bunting. And no, it won't get you killed. You have our word (and our world). 

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An Extremely Pompous Clarification.

If I was capable of peering into the small opening in the moments before surrendering my shoes, I didn't let on, at least not at first. Meanwhile the gray enclosure seemed almost 'homey' initially, but in the end I learned to know better. It is always preferred that I try to not get ahead of myself, because appropriating a tone of rank familiarity could provide just the excuse a malign provider needs to mount a last minute false rescue while those in newer groups have had no time to feign forgetfulness. It seems to render them officially 'clueless' when the die is cast and prohibitive enactments force a person of modest means into the hitherto barely understood metaphorical 'defensive crouch' to breach the harmlessness of fading novelty in drab winter attire.

What strains the credulity of all who have gathered in my pleasantly optimized space, is the time that is normally required to fix a vein to receive a stabilized falcon's beak, powderized this time for ease of use. Now though, the strict undulation inspires a marvelously hidebound attrition in those seeking a nose-replacement regimen, unless their individual gifts render it all but immune to the telltale signs of a magnificent denial. The questions are to be answered in pairs, based on vowel frequency, loss of mass and a certain tightening of reliability standards in our ongoing partner-perfect imbroglios.

The case of 'Our Little Brenda' induces a path-shattering reluctance to grasp the basics of nostalgic primpings while going the distance in each and every short term hypectiture of flaking dermal verzoth-sheaths. It will accrue to the bountiful pleasure of the slippage team to release impervious lengths of nano-threads into the community supply of culpable pastry mounds. The other mounds—the ones we've shown you—are not to be touched without standard protective gear. If anyone is heard suggesting, via diminishing vocalization tribunals,  that our strongest placement is a mere preliminary gnostrum to a more general folding exercise, they should be called immediately to surrender their official false name and be escorted into a perimeter of vague forcelessness, lest they forget what brought them here, and why—most of all WHY!

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