III(rev) — ii — Nothing Arrived in Today’s Mail.

| August 6, 2015 | 0 Comments

Alhambra nixes typical elements with rare ensigns of proper cryogenic routes. fjulsfut there bolster the next dependent warrior in need at an edgy fierce heat concealing witan e–problems. Since erupted by air, or Rex, who thought a safe normal minister spammed loads of faster phalanx in return for plethoras?

 .         .         .

          Languished inspecifically in the land of Forgotten Tents, a firmament sauvage, whence thoughts floated by like dark continents only glimpsed at sundown, incomprehensibly, or like tirades in a less apt moodily, ahriman, to ameliorate his comprehensively xenophobic nativism, reached for the beautiful blackberry bush and plunked on it. A panacea fired thick carets blandly until he knocked. A flush djinn edited opiates flatly and then retuned homilies found shed before the jar. PoD heard someone reply, “Mr. Flustiffer is online,” and then dogs of the summer were unleashed, serving as what one on hold listened to. Rex in recovery of his telephone, Flußtapfer, assiduous with legalities, balked onto there an evincement of objective importance, as pronunciation and other constructions were tousled. When else are we mere trespassers upon the footsteps of antiquity? Only yesterday, when you rolled the big eye and a monster head cameo meant you had only one hour to explain previous paragraphs? Fickly, they might have tarred themselves with no such lesser label than this. The challenged physicist, Elias Deerfield, while inventing a new vehicle, a crèche to the stoughty occidentals of parallax, was in ebb, following his seemingly inculcate departure from channels of international accord. The happy couple burned yet another day, while they who had followed the movement from its inception determined to go east for time.

          In short order, the physicist also returned to his koi pond to coordinate a research template. He knew that, unless he could travel to frequent ICA straw pools, a seat on it was beyond realm of probability anyway. One was said nearby to have already disembarked at a place formerly known as someone else’s aerodrome, and Raoul had hastened to baggage claim, sustained by the vision of his crate resting undisturbed in a dingy corner. Reinforced by this sense of universal harmony, he knew that to plunge directly toward it should stir up unwonted scrutiny, and thought there must be a surer method of retrieving it, for therein were buds of the coal rose, that ephemeral bloom that flourished only in Ossian’s most septic alluvial soil. Eventually peers arrived, clarifying a number of options. An idyll of dueling winds resounded while customs inspectors signed and erased forms, a discount invocation of destiny eventually dared to a state of meaningless dissolution.

          “Methinks,” Raoul admitted, “could have to hope that all these once reapplied tenuous permanganate ideals might check out the famous calendar stone live to [sic] amperage for ninety nine more days upon the written wall that was closing.” In fact, all of those constants, once consigned to the blackboard as by–product to catalysts of multinomial integral equations, were final. All except Ion went to look at old catalogs as if they needed a change. This, Raoul knew, was simply his outermost corner, for if ostensibly a seed monger, he was actually a Western poseur who had come over to sell his manuscript, weighed in the stank of fumes across the water and bad coin, said to be voted for the Plutonian cause, arrived for the first time, beneath the skirl, to show up, an indispensably ugly foundling, upon the steps of the Global Village. Then direct from the Crystal Room, Eight Minutes to Sundown, Blue Palace, Ewignacht, Jesus Z, and many other well knit bands met to inspire and strengthen more than five hundred flowers at an anti–rally before the decision, closeted, upon relegation of the orbital mass known as Pluto.

          Their demonstration threw encompassing circles around the desert. So with ringing self–appraisal of more themes, an ocean of sound waves on spectral carriers cramped in mnemonic ink Pluto, a powder puff of a planet, mere talc on Mohs’ scale, proved an estoppel catalyst as hardy trough, within detour, of other tracking traffic effects. Neap the adumbrate gyre the tune, an interior giant of their system responded in Cartesian redistribution of axial precept. Tired of Western authors over to sell their manuscripts, local networks shadowed as Raoul wandered streets ostensibly setting up his seed distribution business. Its many tenets imported exigent impetus, spanned wastes of cosmic lineage, a loud exchange betwixt spokes of chrome, reigniting Uranus as an alternative. Finally, malted as shown acorn perorations, incensed that their territory was vile lately, it prevailed upon networks to reel Raoul into the foreshadowing, and Bitsy nerved herself tactfully to follow the conversation all around. “No matter how many weeks were contained therein,” the Marquis was saying wistfully, “the summer seemed to last less than a day.”

          Observantly, anti–Plutons left Vegas with pocket reference motions which undid a blended matching strategy. Once more, selection of the International Astronomic Commission had imploded. The physicist, Deerfield, never keen on running again, figured this might be the only way to receive access to a computer, which was what was needed to coordinate the research template. There was a distinction between doing right things and being forced to do right things. Moreover, Elias grew to regard his capabilities of exceptional virtue. Howsoever he put his mind to it, his associates displayed a quickening inclination to assume that he was not capable of doing right things. Of an imputed asteroid, for example, the ICA had egged him ceaselessly to confirm their findings. Was it right to stake his reputation for the sense of generating a gratuitous media thrill? Must posterity judge him were he to sink his weight into the Polar Star orbital ballistic missile project, regarded by leading opinion as humanity’s only hope?

.         .         .

The village dumpster was in the process of being emptied at 2AM. That anyone man could claim on behalf of his own country that they were legally descended from ancient strains was not important to participants. Rex’s wheel spoke of alternative spectrums, logically shaped and spanning untoward chasms of option. At bright variance, flowing out of defeat at Methven, a monad, upon which he’d aim to model his next act, swerved onto an arch over him a patent arachnid; she who reminded him of myriad fashion concepts ordered in merest articles, while precepts cluttered like signboards and unwelcome rattles of siding near and nigh.

          The cold night postponed sleep with an unreasonable wind. Topically, the fizzling rebellion roost, the fifth’s thematic inclined invention satisfying all reasonable guess work, the argument, transiently fitful, crumbled into an equation of simple, integral calculus, a concept to whit that then no fjulsfut were now willing to claim acquaintance. “Yet hadn’t they recently prevented the discoverer (all too busy) from accessing this very source,” Shrdlu interjected? The seconds, given that they were primary caretakers of lumine, declared a closed session and adjourned.

          “As shall we,” the agnomen added, bidding the scholars tarry at a nearby bistro famed for its chalky gorgonzola. Saffron handily steeped their doubts of a smellier trip robustly their next time forward, and hence anxious to this coarse clabber of the worst draught now in service mantle welcomed, in encumbered legend most notable mortgagable inserts, gusts in medias res [sic] dour cameral aegis presumed on air. In an antechamber, blithe athenaeums lisped as a chamberlain enumerated requisite duties observed.

          Convention lapsed when fiefdoms called to their environs of arraigned citizenry poised transcendentally in almost stalwart attitude requiting old shares. Up until then any aardvark could guess that the office of the Ambassador had been to flag neighboring civil clusters. The appointment of an An Indocile as Grand High Ambassador of inter–regnum provided an amylase capable of inducing portent. Upon further reflections, dilemmas of significance, asides to a village idiot, or efforts from emptier quarters, covering with post–its a being who would suffice to avail an appeal for resistance, exactly then we began lettering in anything, one womad acutely and adamantly felt from within opinions of neater kind ever since Në Dipol, forbade future expression, hovered upon lintels of lineal thought.

          Under an unexpected elementary cherry dead roughage feature, spell a journalist, confronted by previous resolutions, making a point of considering future developments. Only I attempted to write with my left hand and words tilted toward an unknown face. And while individuals were striving at times to escape grounds of indignation and Idres, a conciliatory and urbane person, a bright and large young man sat by his console, demonstrating an interest in surveillance techniques, yet now languished in a carob gyve whilst brothers and sisters in disconsolate cribbage plaid, donning a tie for the occasional, an icon appeared farther on the BBC to vehemently denounce conditioned inattention.

         Past all letting the indecency of inhumanity to sink in, Mr. Ng, live journalist, eyed the camera since now, “for our top,” when all of a sudden Ambassador an An Indocile arrived wearing only blue velvet violet earplugs and easily; little else, however her iridescence, given today’s climate, elicited only a cursory glance over from production. Nonplussed enough to protest on cue, “this isn’t today’s slide” — “tough,” An said, “you want me now get me.” “I simply wanted to talk to you here, and ask you about life on other plants.”

          “You mean you didn’t want an?” “Of course not,” replied the impeccable journalist. Loaned from the fifth, An’s couth metastasis into a moussed and swept back layered natheless ensued. “We are honored,” the man coughed, “to have the first visitor from outer space on our show.” “Though you are disappointed that I appeared during a non–sweeps month,” she interjected? The relief of finding this ideal sprang her from staying in a room until a new one availed them to welcome this approaching term.

          While the lengthening shadow had not rhymed an iota, after an inceptive tear across a dotted while, Echo had sparkled like overlooked saltines in an overt parenthesis, avowing moreover an emetic jive orchestral composite, which biodegradably added natural themes of compost minded nascently. These were not the finest of opinion disparaging of the every Montrachet almond in smog that was spoilt by a chord. “So don’t count telepathy among your talents,” Mr. Ng sparred, resolved in efforts to defuse tension, “as you were for once,” she said, The journalist unrolled here, on this map of the universe, “where are you from, are you from over here now, or under there then, or out yonder?” “We are numbered in nine quantities,” An replied, “and I will accept your calls.”

.         .         .

A pilgrim’s excess.

.         .         .

          Strains of the Bolero of M. Ravel congealed in the lower study, always a sure sign that the Marquis was venturing to face additional houseguests. A stratum of their affective tenets portrayed a corps of individuals recently given leave (in some cases voluntarily) from infrequent dallying, and in retention of stressful haste that characterized the mad daily rush that began each morning in search of a parking spot, they all went without reading that in uncertain hidebound pathos we embarked into battle, staggering under weight of regulations, most severely inflicted [sic] not by any misfires, but with antigens designed to render us immune to all possibilities. The return to primitive self has been greatly exaggerated and commercial man should at least like to toy with hopes of a separate venue. Our chapter is amplified with refugees fleeing the melted gulag, who are sure that there is nothing wrong with this country.

          For days in the sand and fresh hair of Camp Cloud, uplifted by much salubrious toil re-routed, Ralph’s platoon in the snoring sites allowed locals to take mulch needled shivers, least noted, and swept the compound for ordnance in fugue here, and had a nice spot picketed to guard by the wire, but the cryogenics forced them to circle the village and jumping into and out of shacks for the next several hours, every gang land ought have mastered past tedious songs and buckles of our usual gear, a new seat of shackles proof of our undoing, and ever fastened, a single clasp under the weight of time, rain, and pressure was an eternity of suspense.

          “We need an adapter cord for gone gophers and more tennis balls,” Suppressant warned. When Franz stormed out from the Maginot Line,  and they saw one elemental UFO, one died valiantly when organisms rang the gate with an empty clump of blanks, and in his honor, the platoon assembled germinally bitter and ten thousand three gallon hats ascended a brick far and wide. A big fork readily damped eight cubit yards of soil in the clothyard that moistly bristled this evening. Trenching in a hot wind, one must ceaselessly adjust to input and decide if diminutive knock–offs may walk in and whom to address accordingly. The accession to high office had turned Bitsy into a caring maven. She preferred imperious supervisors who just left us to rote patterns without someone looking over my shoulder to ask if I want to do something that is either mandatory anyway, already being done, utterly superfluous, or periodic agenda dumping.

          “A frightful lot,” Bitsy objected, and aware of an apparent waxing slope of aa, she postdated other perilous conjectures to an earlier character. Amidst blithe wannabes, repetition of mechanistic actions is no longer stale. “Such is this expenditure in Ossian. A showcase facility at any rate on the coast was promised audibly to acclamation of the local assembly, a plateau of understanding and/or approbation hitherto merely guessed, and bowling appeared to be the sport of kings. Though our R&R seemed subliminally superficial, I cannot utter this grip of isolation too personal to stave. A therapeutic surge at the svelte lodge in retrospect seemed silly: if teen men, crammed into a kiva full of pop rocks and saguaro salsa, can be pantheistic, time emerges into a mid–autumn slushy sleet painless and even enervated.

          “If it didn’t get any worse, you could get used to it. Of excellent proportion sought, of form overruled by purpose naught, yet forgetful of adjustments tonight, despite the immobility of task, we adapted our most furtive telemetry for time flies and sat all night, and I’m including new print cartridges for full use. Safely grimly resolute in our cause, in misty dawn now, last taps upon gravel embankment. Later, Ralph F.” Bitsy stuffed her brother’s letter under the nightstand as ædith was live. “All of the out lights were left on, and you are giving, and you are giving, and you receive nothing.”

          “Thus what you could have needs to be avoided,” she wrote on out of the way construction plaques. “Not that they,” Suppressant aimed in reply, “are too acted upon at eager babel aye by now to refresh oaths.” “Beneath watch of our singly barbarous cousines,” Bitsy reiterated, “I’ve already washed full odes and cerise will swarm.” “Overlook,” the Marquis whirled, “that their wherewithal will supply our cause with the power that was lacking.”

          “Fine,” Bitsy said, “as long as I am in charge of going done done done.” They set aside a parlor whence the decor was early American bulletin board, and trusted that their trail mix stimulated bobbins of the Maypole, for the sixth (who after all were but giant similes taking greatest joy in subdivision) assured them that each impending descriptive passage did not portray a specific sect of industrial man, for at this moment in history everyone held many, some, few, none, or any of the attributes to follow.

.         .         .

The discoverer (all too busy) awoke, tickled by tintinnabulation of a thousand borealis, and discovered that Symphonietta of Janacek, a tunnel, the Holland–Jersey express, curtains of shaking particles crackling like the consternation of a million tictii (his distant cousins), had induced a pole shift, tuned with consternation, into an age when every dial on the console was agog, to activation of his voice box, and began a log of observations. Roveretto, though commanding of presence and ordering numerous events, retained a favorable program. Were it necessary, he once said, to reconcile postulate views of vested editions with marginalized consensus of the littlest earners, a virtuous probability must impute through the decree of all groups of concepts who’d taken refuge in the culvert below his Simi Valley cottage, to the great dismay of the housekeeper. “Try not being such an alchemist,” he said. An orthodox element imparts an heroic discretion in any event, as evinced by his refusal to rewire the circuit breaker in defiance of decades of instruction.

          Moreover, by perpetually expressing this fixed determination of isomems to see Echo persuaded, against an ad hoc [sic] tribunal, within one’s own imagination at least, of an unwavering resolve to practice steadfast values, even if it were the last person, then thought, ever expected to see again in contrast, only if two ohmmeters, sentiment, heart wherein ought his treasure rust, and works of minimal risk, roamed and for how long nearly persisted, increasing the essentially murky layer betwixt he and fidelity. Realizing no record was near of previous events, the monad switched on the vox box and began analogizing. “In a conduit of some sort, composed of charged particles, odd, even, the blanket dissolves through a glass temple. An immense disc of light, so thorough that my shield partly melts, paces clear before calibrating.” Decomposing particles charged the temple with an immense disc of light.

          “I approach nine years of creep and woof therapy into flights awfully recycled; even on our way to a rhombus off–lined as all get–out, this San Bruno pontificate over the phone was is in as much need of familiarity as a spike in nothingness, stopping us from going over there so they could slam their clapboard set–off thespians.” “I’m history beneath the coldest mirror,” Plair awoke, thickening a sundry splash of deluge brain stiffener given. Within moments of forthcoming, they supposed his story weak yet vague, if lacking coherent direction, and he appeared peaked, often bacterially flaunted from plompromprim, of efficaciously tendentious propensity in risking the tube strength of outgoing nuisance chi.

          “This hole in your chest is everytime the lobby door opened,” said a man arrived, offering to buy back all partially used ivy bags. It was always difficult to reconcile time masks, unless it were a turbo charge just starting to pay for itself. By merchandizing the serenity enduring on the slopes of western Mary’s hamlet, as a hinterland subsumed during the great palinogenesis of 2018, a new lampman, the starch idler argued without any stretch of imagination, “I was the one who purchased the barcarole as a result of my duplicitous steamsmanship.”

          “If you are a shoe short,” they said, “listen up, it needs to be caught — at least bump your head or try selling long on original morality, muffin.” Someone always, yet not needing, to be, suddenly decided to de–emphasize virtual monomania, ere unrequited sparks may ever countenance love by exception. The next day he’s not going to be able to loll for a partly plausible lighter or slate for An — her censorious logosthete notwithstood — so beneath any cipher soars thoroughly diurnal meltdown, on a par that Olive fissilely blessed, made untoward in inclination.

          Those wore out Flambeaux’s perusal of some tertiary minnesinging codex in time, for its being balsamic freefall was prehumous long enough: henceforth recent whispers swooped over to immure Plair to nearly moist ostensible currant, lapsong dirigisme, turquoise aspirate, and another preventative spring roll. Athwart variegated mimesis, his plaintive insistence on textual anhedonia brought esthetic twinges of certainty onto Echo’s collage, refuting nabobs who’d held which aspects of klatch as therapeutic crèche were value–added on account of simplex artifice, did the op–ed, “Untitled into the Untitled,” not offered off mid–scream.

          “These galactic journeys the only chance nowadays to finish any work, at last I convinced one not into unlikely talk oneself intuited; in fact any inclination was to stay in bed annoyed. The more scowling immediacy to rush into the smell to get back in Elvis’ ‘favor,’ was also a look for guidance, ‘extra advice’ as it were, providing anyhow a safety margin for some affair from l’nurt. I domed a knell of hokum when she maintained it was nice to get mail precisely that hasn’t been printed by a nose bomb. Whilst the best isomer process artisans inculcated during an enhanced production cycle, dare I tergiversate about a fairly successful minute attachment to the punt of an opposition?”

.         .         .

Argon tinged filings quicklimed in gentle strike, the galvanic quantity of an effective compound upon which a consortium stood prospectively to mass an operable gain over the ionic fringe. The sorting of all assessments of an imminent space–borne particle matter displaced orison projects inattentively, as national delay of an ounce of prevention wrote a whole yard nine adoption of common aim, that was to secure elevated platforms for deployment of telekinetic arrays for shooting down stars.

          As at this time there were very little to test upon, a practical suggestion of a prototypical flotation in time to catch the Leonids of August 2012 drawing massed criticism from citizens of the United States, since at the insistence of a motion advanced by the physicist Deerfield, these showers were declared a visible resource protected from abuse under the Celestial Treasure Act of the 2011 International Astronomic Treaty. Noone was of a mind that this might prevent or deter everyone from simulative practices sustained in modular suspension, opening a bistro of top shelf appropriation voted under general committee and tackled as riders upon other amendments of importance.

          Erstwhile as in commerce (a department), host to a stirring cyclotron of virtual development, dispensed with many submissions. Of sad mien straitly were inventors, whose compounds of isometric polymer, bauxite alloy, or costlier rare earth tincture, ousted by strategic concomitance, as memorandums forelimned advanced research of an unguent consideration of inert stillness. Since then, a basaltic raft, captivating existing urge to believe in correctly sited material, claimed momentum under even the most stringent analysis sympathies of the ethical movement, an executive impetus, to confine final tests to a pair of dueling consonant design switches, one of native origin, led manufacturing agencies of the mainland to surge with their coordinate reply: a sled of such tensile woofness that Park, noting treaty prohibited targeting flanges stamped surreptitiously into the bevels by artisans distinctly non–signatory, knew at once that he was swamped in algorithms.

          Other departments clamored, yet the men of commerce defended Park’s decision to apply rigor of excess to each Polar Star launch platform prototype. This was a circuitous refusal to being seen remaining attached to many adherents. Mr. Horace Tolstoy, denied rebid, stalked across the Mall, not caring for once how many blades were trampled as a flimsy puce mucilage from the latest Chippendale climacteric sifted in his wake. How he had failed to adjust or match the seasoning were a study of an untoward setback. Contrary to prevailing winds of opinion, he did spend not every waking moment second–guessing his decisions.

          Parched anxiously, near the telephone, some of the customs fled from his moody brow. Yet, knowing that test was less than a week hence, and forced to regard actual if well–rehearsed penury that threatened many of his other projects, would Horace dare to seek solace with fortune cookies? A practiced eye for folly proved of worth in seeking steps of principle. Characters abbreviated (what were their names) went south yielding several incidents case specified, and now a nod in season was to defray a conclusion of pendulous verbiage.

Category: Act III Revised Ed.

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