Friday

High Ho SLiver

Jill came on a sliver. It was touched with Franny. Her twelve egologies were very Husserl. In a hustings sort of style. What? come again agog. Grog me muscles worry'em down to the hastings, of your bullet and silver glide. Not whether to camp, but observed to share her meat with every comer. Not Italy either, but the Metropolitan Indians knew something like. That. They treated her like god a saint,, a pure pilgrimage on the road. O she was orphaned? an unconscious orphan was the best face to become. Poor Fanny! always fretted about her revolution. Not for this was faciality a problematique of the criticism forthcoming. Traitors were everywhere! not an conspiracy, but a piracy of player. Not a deck o f cards, but a solo of bard belowing the temps.


Comic frets are better than none. So wisdom goes in a golden hole. I mean, a hole, a hole, a hold!