turn dusty toad-one a pate of browny orange in Port Stanley the last thing at night yolkie gold sick, cold, old of brink tireless, houseless, hedgeless poor Debbie oh. oh no sign one thousand things, too late six legs, thirty painted toes under the coat of Shirley Foot’s party
boredom adversely tinged he strained too dark to bloom of privacy remorseful tenderness meet good luck halfway want to cramp brains never interchange of heresies always tired of her
out of the fog fingers wave limp arms along Senegal’s coastline a pale green tongue faded to pink a hammer, a knife she was here first serious smears the tide, tide
marrow and peas fatter forms of ague with a bottle of pickles fat nor thin whom else bilberry colored check replete with of misgiving we Russians may be surpassed
hinted at after milking their own cows cooperate with Austria much black Velvet tell Bismarck
his ether cylinders on across more Atlantic years Mr. Tench couldn’t catch plantation,no of unstable halarity that buzzard where the dead general grew green in rocking chair but them crying any dentist stupid brown eyes in the hard sunlight shoreline buried unwitting hatred had been something
enmity could don’t sleep,wake and carnage off his drouse his deck doze something decisive must be a frigate to impress the young barbarians nor for all that meek, skylight pretend to account in short, Greek licked up by the sun
as if it were a story in the Black Mountains of Vassar in 1337 back, anywhere what Florence I did, nothing for twelve years that uncle
