Saturday

Romance by fated

She's ushered summer by the cow-hide. Brilliant deductions to blame herself. Not a fever of tasting cranberries conceals it. The hour has come, it's nigh. At the clinique she's classical to her abrupt allergories, concealing a rather ? excuse moi, he leaned. Out over the precipice of readerly orders. this can be no one to go. Not even Lady K and her magnificent trawlerries. Time to copy and paste her teeth.

Ship of the old flock (pfd)

Pillion. Yes, stallion Mona, ricocheted over the hump. A dramatic fork at her lips. Thermoter at the pulse of things. She must be a gelid geogogologist. Not this way her metaphysics. So the pent up chair floating over the arras. Not the weaker sex, but a numerous account of honeys. Solomon to her Breckenridge. Not afamous character, but a personafictation of ravenous skulls. Not caps either but higgledly-piddedy_ O you varmint ! you mean piggledy? O say where fore you are whence to the chopping shopping bloc. Chip of the old transmitter.

Tuesday

she's got

Shes got nowhere to go except her feet.

A paranoid little schizo was walking alinge . A linge or too in her south. Indeed. she was paranoidto the nth degree. and the 5th house she met caming along.


Thus was Franny.