To become lost amid underperforming texts the stranger won't answer. By which time it was nosebleed territory anyway. The geese had put away their young, then fled; all that remained to be determined was local angst, over which who cares what by sitters in a landscape, I say: how is this remote? Yellow wine will rinse it all away, and how many of us are there? Is it my imagination or must one foregather to bring stuff in?
Long before that, the tocsin
had sounded in the autumn dell, Toxins were released.
One's by-now crystallized antipathy to daring new
solutions swamped local perennial borders.
Because at least getting too serious had reputable
antecedents. Being in the way didn't matter,
nor should it, yet who knows what embarrassments can leak
this way, foreground moony entertainments? Just a clench
suffices when their guard is up. The horse pilots,
sleeping rough in their thousands,
announced commodious outcomes contradicting too-prompt
displays of local affection. The broad petals of language
As if hailing the invention of eyeglasses, cleverly bobbing on the bridge of the nose so effortlessly, their correction of vision is almost spontaneous, the geek for The New Yorker gives us a thumb-rest of innocuous integration with a quite different world as it is: the one constructed of choices repeated, all day long. And what is this breaking down of "barriers," may we guess, but facilitating fingertips favouring that pattern? Could I commission an optician to convey to me a confessional screen in Prince of Wales tweed, I'd send it out for cleaning once a year and still save on battery life.
A thin wash of morning rain on the decks was perfect. Between Exit B and Exit C was a twenty yard stretch unhindered by deck chairs. We raced towards it in our bare feet and let ourselves go, sliding along the slippery wood till we crashed into the railing or a door being suddenly opened by a passenger ..
Even Gérard, summoning his best never complain, never explain mode, would scarcely allow himself to hear of it, when the White House Chief of Staff portrayed the horror of a Monday without consequences - short, he brightened to suggest, of annihilating some of the suf-ferers. Oh, the decline of wit, some muttered, perilously close to the sin of disgust, plunging the silver into the mustard to assuage the wilting pâté. Not that this depredation of chemistry seemed the outrage, anymore, that it used to be. And so they gathered, to draw up a list of cornichons of correction, petty torpedoes of tartness to assure a Monday of demonstrable consequences. But the disturbance was as short-lived as the delicate little thwacking promised by the Chief of Staff, as a consensus coalesced around an airlift of floppy purple fingers, tiramisù left over from the buffet of the Emerald City, to point the way to saving face all 'round.