In bypass interventions, it is famously customary for there to be a shopping about for vascular fragments which might be lifted from here, to be placed over there, to restore the feedback loop of the underlying engine to a kind of continuously impartial distribution. I do not care to think of this as Scarlett O'Hara's slicing about among the curtains, to craft a dress to impress Rhett, so I wouldn't put it in those terms. But the window can suffer its indulgence of this raid with incongruous strains, said to be temporary, such that as one may favour the recipient limb, the donor groin may spontaneously command equal empathy, and restoring one's step is not the simple matter one may have supposed.
In Virginia we are spared any presumption of level terrain, our pavement being much more percolative and receptive to vegetal propagation than, say, the sidewalks of San Francisco; so that what we might yield in variation of incline we more than recapture in unpredictability of surface. For this reason the shirtless neighbor really comes into his own as a support, where the ordinary set of crutches would be futile, to say nothing of inhumane to our burrowing populations, and the billowing shirt might only mislead as to the proximity of the stabilising frame. A solid bannister, if you will, for what really is a churning sort of foundation for the stride.
The otherwise unthinkable hauling on of our 501's, molded over time to en-tirely lither femoral geometries, is likewise assisted by the shirtless neighbour, by example. A little practice in the milder sun of March is very well judged, and naturally gives way to the restorative nap.
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