‘what have you done’ dullards at the Captain’s table a jump ahead good Jewish friends a good cigar maybe both on a straw mat light blue, dark blue colorless sexless pair fatal ruby network someday dilating and wincing peeping and snatching her feelings were hurt again insect, fish, flower, bird(…)
the public, the people watery eyes nothing was wanting over the trees stood forgotten the spherical jar of chloroform young men kneeling his blanched nose visibly constricted neither a miser nor a hypochondriac less ideologically hampered in half-profile the lonely and domineering man no blame attaches stunted, useless behind a cordon salt and silver(…)
in 1819 too often hollow both sexes and others pigs, poultry and rabbits the stout cook much mended grasshopper-sounding shrill when winter was at hand so much for sawdust faintly-colored face yellow hut five Louis’ more or less could be useful ‘if I were rich’ a black coat at half-past two left his hat(…)
first light will be the last inches and chafes mud-purple shadows bulrush-brown had no tickle blue you see of high mocking irony impatient twiddling another stone dropped how alike to forestall already frowning these sad souls as savant
a promise, a sign for poetry tall for a Turk later on plexiglass panels thought he saw intense, almost instinctive dread the empty windows everything there was to know baring tins of sunflower oil tea and medicine the high price of a glass of tea as if two hard whacks no one(…)
buildings came down the Jews turned to weaving walked barefoot, waved sticks rocking cradles with their feet wheat and rye to Prussia a bank of high windows his whistle shrilled the first, the best, the leader cats stalked the pigeons the man with the common face brass buttons lard instead of plain oil(…)
ochrous haze good frumenty raisins, currents, whatnot as large as lemon pips even brilliantly quarrelsome elbows, seams with the shillings the fair continuing a single big blue sky heavily dewed grass wrapped in horse-cloths ‘that meekness’ that motionless hour a long procession of years pens for sheep
tucking up their sleeves for hours twenty miles of view cheerful trim among the trees that and nothing else ‘in a gush’ suggestion of rain scarlet calico where no one loves him ‘I don’t die, I don’t fall in love’ roared like a millionaire one more wench new clean words bridle Harriet’s tongue(…)
eighty-nine shirts his strong sons rows of green mountains burnt carrot powder many times folded ‘it is possible to make the world new’ those short legs cleaned of young turnips even the woodcutter such idiocies in his roomy elbow-chair pale as clay coffee, bread and butter it’s prune oven a day in a thousand convoy(…)
