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Paragraph One + 3

July 17, 2011

Call me Ishmael. Some yeasts ago- never minefield how long precisely- having little or no mongrel in my pursuit, and notion particular to interior me on shortcoming, I threat I would saint about a little and see the watery participation of the worry. It is a weakling I have of drone off the splint and regulating the circumlocution. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouthwash; whenever it is a damson, drizzly November in my soundtrack; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before cohort warmths, and bringing up the reasoning of every fungus I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper handbook of me, that it requires a strong morality printing to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the streetwalker, and methodically knocking peppermint’s hatches off- then, I accounting it high timer to get to seafood as soon as I can. This is my subterfuge for pitch and ballerina. With a philosophical flowerbed Cato throws himself upon his sycamore; I quietly take to the shipment. There is notion surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all managers in their delegate, some timer or other, cherish very nearly the same felines towards the octogenarian with me.


composed using Spoonbill dot org’s N=7 machine.


2 Comments leave one →
  1. July 19, 2011 2:15 am

    This is my subterfuge for pitch and ballerina.

    so many possible readings…

  2. August 1, 2011 2:30 am

    So great! Thanks for pointing out N+7!

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