III(rev) — v — An Initially Irrevocable Margin.

| August 6, 2015 | 0 Comments

With influx of helium tontines, great febrile prelate gazes upon fun hymn. Childe Horace revives the double margarita to the feisty Countess Constancia (Echo), an old dime, and successfully boating a backlog for his pinnace in arbitration rapt linotype. Plair’s born fence rave of launched choral acts mostly reeks onto the amerced boom in a glory state. Not one fine strains any culpable viral powwow, informing the price of eggs via a rare knesset marvel.

.         .         .

          Since every moment that had elapsed, and hence Shrdlu became aware of the impact of manual FPT study upon others, and the idea that pensive nasty instructions were no longer there, his personal salvation had become entertaining to him. Concomitantly, and on other levels, he thought, “now that I am aware of this and can relate individually, this will increase my chance of being serious.” While it should have been simpler to seek permanent repair, combinative shared encyclicals blogged into a semiconscious maelstrom of thought. Recognizant of peril, yet feeling too laid back to deal with anything, Shrdlu laughed at others who could not hang with texts, thereby reinstitutionalizing traditional patterns of fear, dismissal, or harm from arbitrarily imagined other faiths, and was deeply ingrained of avoidance of everyone else in a similar fix of comfortless ideals. He preferred to believe all other persons, with clarified vision, strode zestfully in comforted fulfillment, released from concern, and morphed into a flickering ember of sometimes.

          In this unrealized vision, Shrdlu scorned a place of acceptance, an area of eternal communion, dry as a Venn to him yet eternal Erewhon, and those vast intractable crystal yurts of inevitability wordlessly overlooked endless emerald steppes, voidable theatrics, missed lunch, harmful iniquity, all here forgotten and incomparable spans of moments clasped in winks, early desire, passion, fervor, sleeplessness, toil, justification, leisure, image absent now; it was when he had clamored, for fate as an absolute reality, that now had come to the end of years, fringed in repentance, regret, or remorse, that transubstantiation receded to a vaster distance, and left him only his love of a world which grieved for him as an unattainable bore. Amid his out–timed ideals, only Shrdlu talked more or the longest, because they were too lengthy to expound in the general square. They set about marking bounds, for outdoor use only, because they were surrounded within an enclosure of bisnaga and blinked distastefully as snapped in subtle development about garments hung upon the spiny Antares.

          Must a logical advance lead unto new paradigms, Sylvia’s brother, yesterday wooing liable thin front if other yard, wee Sylvia had been as exiled as in a cadenza paper machine. “In God’s how upset art duties aft kept changeling,” uttered Fr. Anselm, where stains tug. Oft Margarethe’s concert troupe dinned those hampers and booths, yet wild huge nocturne noise, the latex mantis fluffing ethers to every impotent ivy sitar, swept with either terror or a scant, wan national heaven for labeling, unto a ward woven tote, a being, for my diorama moose alas was not always it. Variegated within sounds of elastic trumpets, a swan maven extended a hat by the idea or potential existence of an humbler man than he.

.         .         .

Afar as Henry (VII) had been concerned, the man, born of Mary, existed with all green fustian grooves, which meant that all of humanity was simply content to dig for an emptier throne with ease as a somewhat benevolent exercise. Sashes shone by a kindled peasantry, a sly Henry (VII) gleamed in able catharsis. “As thy cagey song tilt, ‘our fate has fumed group pin erosion causelessly. Did or did not a roan lord sway, cost out your own mote’? This freed life I,” the German monarch had splayed, entitling a natty model of the big old Elector of Flippenberg’s death, “gainsaid, this better judgement the sacrist was liefer to have thrown into a teleological gnosis truth whitener.” “We’re still paid to desire that pineapple,” Fr. Anselm decried.

          “Yet while employed they bled rede, you ran at the versts of perestroika, you appalling evil voles,” the monarch authorized. As soon as he staged, the house displaced behind a tree and people in–house, covered to the count of ten, or until Deerfield made it to the next house, were always free to leave. “For sure,” the sacrist argued, “don’t have a cow. It’s curious, that nestled shard of grace, all that binds sin need flash at this goofy drool.” “And does mans’ goat rope of newer yurt paths involve astrology and chary ICC alarms?”

          “It does,” Fr. Anselm relied. “A writ as vastened wit by St. Raoul, ‘what is most fit, either gospel ministered in flopped cites or long kinds, a song as calm as it is plied’?” “I am in a pale huff, alas that clench Rome adopts to warn dank minds,” Henry (VII) caviled. “We emerge as both aspect, and are volute for both God and accretion.”

          “Then a lot you know here, alive to hear malt,” the sacrist (staid nod), a thin super ghost peeved. Henry nuanced on, “forums exclaiming the glory of Christ therein but stir the divers head.” “Hidden, the acrid test, limp corn, chowed whole.” Henry rasped, “don’t you argue with meta–teeth: God was the benign giant hand and ether, that whisk exited at the beginning, before all over things, was never generated but simply was.”

          “Existence denies, for I,” the sacrist conceded, “therefore, that which is not created cannot be disturbed.” Waiting for that hesitant odd misery should settle speedier gruel, flashy Clifford lent shrewd Fr. Anselm, noticing that some [sic] bats were beginning to stir far above them, diversion to conclude discussion.

          “Yet, on more arguments, as compelling” — “shadow puppet’s,” in Henry (VII)’s persistent praxis, “cadence envies a dusty street beast!” “I cannot tell you how relieved I am to hear that,” Fr. Anselm muttered hastily. “Indeed it is the best news of all,” the monarch said. “Now to another matter. Involving a man who is very dangerous to our way off life. You must denounce him publicly.” “Why must I?” “Folks listen to you,” Henry (VII) said. “Your word is heavy.”

          “Why lo,” interjected the sacrist, “a speckled cliff lark is perched outside the chancel!” “This donation anonymously will cover all of this,” Henry’s palmer, a bad dove, lagged. Fr. Anselm lent thorough hesitance, yet what manqué Henry was staining to have virtuously nuanced! Whose a sad few Aira shown, Frederick, one mad, spies demesne by sanity of that sacrist’s owl catholicon become chippier, saw the tiniest daddy of them could plant a vast chance to shop Hume.

          Had not paprika left for glory in wax memo, the men watched in hem conga, chortling as the roadster executed numerals? Tinged, however, in arts of evasion, and relieved that strained visitations seemed to have ebbed, Fr. Anselm spoke, “are mendicant friars already active in this course you so urge?”

          “Honestly, padre, who listens to them,” Henry (VII) shrugged? “You have, on the other hand, the common ear.” As they moved into the nave, frescoed along inner buttresses, a conception of a universe, a design recently conveyed by a visiting Mosaic scholar, a modern refutation of polemic principles all had held dear, was into stone stenciled.

          Henry, noting this kempt, lately blanched. His question unspoken, one delegate from his suite reproached the sacrist. “We demand to know at whose instigation this insidious blasphemy exists,” the retainer rapped out.

.         .         .

Sylvia resumed raking as Ahem’s colleagues stood staring at this interruption, dropping them off, “would they stop expensively weighing the effect of their absence pertaining to subsequent emphasis?”

          In dawning awareness that his prey had worn a fjulsfut mask, ahriman, from that one trailer, suffused the heavens with slow octave distress calls. “Do not step upon that, lest your numerous appliance had smattered.” Even here that year pushed the real strength of his suitability for condiments, wherein either left to the innermost chorus, this arduous pitch emanated from a hearth of seconds, or from a really great adieu to entropies uniquely athwart assessments of chance, were a prince so close to terms solo again, that any slightly away with the ad priori [sic], had these monads stood in toto with numerous instructions not liably tortuous with fallible horrors (their need for fidelity not only craved knowledge often in duress of stucco shame) was yet viewed slant wise through which hyper–borealis nodded from recent account.

          Hearing distant explosions, “hark and hist,” thought Ahem, therein lied the best part of love, “worthy ostler,” quoth he aloud, “periodically berate us for aspects of venue. Struggle in my concert, felicitous elicited darkness that forever eludes men, only because they had known success (if partial) to the freakish abandonment of alliance premonitory to that stunted full ailing long petition neither unsworn nor feebly assonant.”

          It was not as if they had active social lives, and these dramatis personae, credibly possessed of recalled missing ousts, perceived limits to all out of mind, seeing their minister walking hand in hand with a dybbuk. Fr. Anselm replied, “it is unfinished,” adding, “and you might want to know, the practice of depicting works of evil being, by grace of our Lord o’erborne, is common among buildings of the day.” “You imply that this then is a cosmic foil, a straw man, a crash test dummy,” they surmised. “In all faith,” the sacrist noodled, “already glaziers are puttying the touches upon depictions of our Lord trampling upon revanchiste ideals of those parvenus.”

          An idea smote him and he gave voice to it extemporaneously. “Moreover, I regard this as a fitting contribution to your cause.” The importunate scion relented slightly. “My father is a heliotrope, and I will drive him into hypostasy!” With this pledge appearing to restore his good spirits, the King of the Romans bid adieu nervelessly, they faced the writhing terminus of medial useful coils pro forma. “Forgive the price of eight dozen eggs,” Ahem was heard to say, and how dry were seen Formica fifth tabling inner measurable azure stairs toward Erewhon.

          During his ascent to post of ICC, Ahem Mi’sik Irwah had never expected PoD to try anything this obvious. “Aha at the end of any session,” Ahem chided him, “if you want to dance with anybody, you don’t need to tell me too soon,” for to the envelopment of several pale nothings, they left to jump–start the crescendo ontos. Once, Ahem had instructed scholars, whenever confronted with demotic possession, to listen for a lie to tell that one is bounded by systemic applications of contractual policy.

          “While wool gathering, lie down and break it out, devote one to the study of dust and its impact upon life, and become only conformed within a flame lenticular.” The armload of eflots steadily slid away into the neighborhood as traces of a path back to the Tox appeared through the hedge, not a creature was stirring and an ideal morning pollination was completed in ragtime. Her brother Clifford was manipulating the remote for Sylvia’s roadster, when the song of Joplin from the turn of the century overtook them, smashed it into smithereens, and left them. Sylvia at last laughed hysterically. She had truthfully seen her older brother break one of his toys.

          Between siblings, this conferred an immeasurable advantage. Clifford, if only to avenge his crestfallen countenance, resolved to find the perpetuator. He would have forgiven this chauffeur’s dour silence, had Elias known that once the Institute discerned his colleague’s role in setting Burning Man aflame prematurely, charges were straitly mooted and met with parallel censure, though as Justine stood, it was north of our skill at weaving for Core. She, sad outcast from the world, from whom no one should ever hear how much was unsaid, it being written that, when the summer solstice flower gave out to the last bee of autumn, a shadow could be driven from the sea.

.         .         .

The couplet, assuming anyone understood the utility of cloaking grave matters within halves, was on a rice cookie that had been snatched away from Ensign Plair the moment he folded his menu. Agitated servitors had, not far from his sight, replaced the vellum sampler in a fresh confection held, as in earnest for an expected guest. Fishing about the harmonium for his favorite fugue, which had leapt into his ear at shift change, Plair stood convoked to silence, lest a resumption of curiosity end the sufferance of his custom. His straitened deck allowed fewer possible choices, re: pause whenever words wore out in imagery.

          As witness to trysts below, yet actually noting little of them, the ensign was at time present, albeit stood up, after emplacing four quarters for his favorite songs, through which hopefully, seated so near an exit next to this girl so far, Talitha, he had failed to gain her notice. The gram band that was once of a quantity shot mystique item during the dawn of cyber–technology (circa 1985) now had difficulty booking State Fair. After two name changeovers, a sell off of Christendom, fits of huge objectivism, cans opened, and worms everywhere, Bitsy, checking your gifts’ birthrates at the door, was hostess to the transfiguration of governable consent. In antiquarian modes frequently coincident with an aim after just one second (must the Marquis be pleased as all get out) as tough an admixture of isthmus soundings rang interminably poorer bluer sterility than were immovably objectionable.

          Now basking in a stasis absinthe and likely to say I am a rede, as missing links hopped elsewhere, Bitsy conducted affairs with distant relief. How fiercely the minstrel resumed, “Niobe defended her children from reproaches of the pale bog oak with the air of one who had let others off the hook so many times that she expected to be rewarded for her leniency with others voluntarily returning thereupon; all told she singed swishly crunched through a magnetism so escapist that conceivably the spectrum of aesthetic ability was all a measure of vitiation, inasmuch as the affectation of any external proclivity denoted an individual predilection towards fetishism,” and retiring from these coruscating notes Frederick, Tyrant of Sicily, watched as this appalled Dutch uncle brooded bitterly upon means of redressing these wholly misdeserved slights.

          Buffering streams of conterminous how, why, and wonder broom mopping thermopiles, shabby snails excused the revolution without them, made 3D owl eyes at her aboriginal behavior, and conspired Bitsy’s inexorable stand. Renovated at the end of winter, the ground gave up its smells of grease and they wafted with tentative spring south breezes. She ought not have been surprised if they had already have forgotten all themes deviously, including one ædith, who withdrew from sudden confidence each, praising her children as strapping brats and offering each an orange for Christmas. With alacrity she said, “I think you ran out of some redux.”

          “Scratched notices,” ædith shrugged, knowing that she was chosen for her ability to emit gasps fitting to post industrial incidents. “The real waste was not always,” he said, setting his green tea down on the lamented gait without a coaster, “a loafer of considerable vastness.” Charily interposing one, Bitsy was relieved to find that conclave had at least settled upon a slogan: “A man’s faults of those of his civilization; his virtues are his own — W. Goethe.”

          This banner, posted over the labyrinth that greeted pledges, fluttered in a moist Biscayne breeze that suggested antiquity to those given of any mind to know their environment. The doors unlocked and their volte–face [sic] executed, arrivals, dismayed that their destination flirted with bromides dismissive of express severity while all about them the detraction of occidental values receded, committed to a claim of jurisdictional suspension and acquainted the participation placard with sixteen times sixty–four brackets.

.         .         .

On both hands, vacuum, but in one an active personae ennoblement messaging facility imposed over a supra–optional legacy lest monotonous receptor age another, palled before noticeably hair splitting dilemmas, common merely to individuals following ardent self–appraisal regimens, who had arrived without any more ideals. Many appointments already nearly dwindled, and aware that a reformation had started without them, tardy arrivals registered hastily and crowded to ogle the event schedule, which touted tonight’s pledge dinner, “Snore Through the Cure.” The hiccough, Mr. Horace Tolstoy suffered, disguised forasmuch as he’d delved in former formula folders more vanilla if nihilistic themes to impute a select inner quantity pronounced as an excess of distance present, stayed out for an immediate description of them for plainly, through all fault of yonder hymn, a character started and a note, to which small importance was attached, fluttered.

          Horace studied scrawls indicating the Ruthenian Contessa was running late, reviewing history. Echo had shed her first old suit with a sure hello spoken so icily that as the man for lifting her disclosed vex another insult as he described it occasionally indicating their unison least livable where the when pressed upon her as off reality his perception of Thermidor imbued nigh wholly with the entire expected fortune of her next installation; these dangled precedent sullied by the man who demonstrated a concerted desire for that first though final time, following immeasurable moments of strain, figuring that he had diagrammed most notorious plots, inveighing the heiress for noted immoderation and claiming that she was against his entire cause, her first old suit had fallen with a gasp as lead paper crystal suspended snow globe struck him senseless, and as his lawful wife Constancia reasoned that remaining with him for visiting hours of almost three week’s duration until the man, who won for her styled as robust precursor to an illustrious outcome by dying, to then renew favor the probable heresy violating prime solecisms it was with untoward envy that the Village Court had ordered the entire estate of Ruthenia returned to the moodily jaded hesitant hussy who was so vehemently singular.

          Hence, at Echo’s arrival, Horace might have left over an iris bulb at finth with an aim of precipitating a disabling censure. Erstwhile, in earnest, was one proclaiming swannily, dare I drag thee from thy naïve hearth amidst general wailing to be determined to a lyrical, aerie row situation of seeming bleak sense (stated within Gemini azimuth, an attendant ode became woollier). Answer: biodegradably inspired dust mice accorded fashioned developments of history, seeming to disdain all shading efforts, by saying, you see us, do not think the blind fools our resolve. Per idiocy, an apoplectic isomer Type N, as eager to advance causes appeared, pulling up short as she witnessed Tolstoy so closely ensconced in development of a marginal major action plan with someone else. Had she ever imagined as changed a king? There, hid in showy sorts, scrapmon’ et al [sic] hazed amounts of monsoon Faust bias in gypsum beyond illicit hoofing. “Ten tiers we’d fain reform in succession ere meniscus fortes leapt our slack viewfinder GSPs. Justine’s eleventhing dabs away all toxin of febrile trail mix lest boffo tremens douse her unseen.” Such riot, often borax–like, usurped incense because of moonstruck Lamarckian chia spools. A most mimsy agave bore druidic hallmark, bunched along peaked yet skimpy moats very raftable on elevated filigree.

          So sue me, he could say if contorted, so Thledvirrson postponed visible scenes for alternatives ongoing, chose to suppress as leaven within popular journals, and heeded to a tan vinculum phase. Fulminating elements often ransom dear for due to strengthening the sand lime lit lent out as frontage of an imprudent mask an aerial reclaim that, span from out of southern exposures lately counted for little, as an oracular phenomenon bore out (upon carrying, Echo heard him say to her, I have all of time upon me, yet face a sense of arrested motion. Items appeared, thoughtfully deodorized alack, for the nostrum trace deferred amidst emissive misnomer in defective manner tines in misarray. Another’s entrance coated then ailing micronauts within casual escarpment press. The misalliance, noted an observer inclined to excessive reflection, was an appalling nuance in a tour of stones thrown. Had mere usage of a properly sworn plat that before us (bethink sine) was among many articles dished through an anxious prevision of aggregate counsel, over the other side of the hill ago accompaniment to litanous march of tenacious few would have not so escalated into the error of refraction, pontificate, and approval to majesty, downstairs an entire dust mice theory hummed). Under psychosis, each ledge kept free of moist coal rose dust, it was possible for long walks in blase relief, mitigating the wow factor typified by lactose incandescence.

          Rum notes indeed, voir dire [sic] dispersal clanged for these lost daisies phasing south egolessly in tints rather comatose. Fr. Anselm, with argot of dumb tics, had wrung fissile odes out of the innate sensibility manifest by the more diagonal eldritch, who’d chilled next to stubbed–out font. “Contra,” he inscribed, “to unfrumious salvatude nearby, I expect tubular eternity will pirouette to retro doubt, a shared domain of origami valence. This sop to multi verse alimony must graft into a futurity predisposed for acts of rhinestone calmness, if weird, too exteriorized bonfires signally nuance the emphatic relevance of shadow puppet.”

          This focus on incidental refrain, for Flambeaux’s extrapolative craft seemed nevermore strained by his ancient colleague’s bent toward an intransitive case, placed at arm’s length the redactive ubiquity long held as germane when few scholarly addendum symbolic outliers seemed reposed in margins inter alia. Contextually stymieing most was an insistent willingness to withstand scrutiny as evinced in a bygone sense of looming whatnot.

          Throughout schematic inklings had Henry’s consort, Margarethe, reticulated matters immediately apropos to the sacrist’s nemesis, if in such wise that deipnosophy might be called upon to unsnarl the lacey dream skeins of her montage. Courting amenity with significant obeisance, Tolstoy nodded, leaving the teal vapor guess to self–implied propensity, views, form held after a primordial kind; sheaves apparently zygotic to zed. Avid in spectacular fashion, the countess yielded all of, erstwhile to a theorem on a peeve, hope in absolutely any case, yet stressed upon her principles a consequent expression of ownership concurrently within trust and also belief systems inaugurated within an unanswerable indignation lest her vexed anklet reveal an ulterior sociality.

          So many earlier adherents of either sect who had chosen to neglect these stringent caveats were soon sent from their grant collecting internships in disgrace. Horace, recognizing the propriety of the situation impersonally acceded, and in wake of Constancia’s exeunt nervelessly studied the pendulum.

          As the clepsydra indicated a precision analog — spelling ten of seven, adulatory elsewhere events fetched outpourings of longing for a luminous delegate. In playback, all too busy was vexed with his cogitations. Every dial aboard had went astray. “Well, punch my button and call me Marta,” the discoverer (all too busy) exclaimed, upon learning that the other pole shift had mattered in his NASCAR rotisserie league. It was a distress call from ahriman [sic], which had invoked technical privilege as lumine.

          This separation of anxieties occasioned a reckoning of how boys continued to validate their pluck at keeping in time before the present stage. Anyone might have not the tiniest inkling that power failure would be the consequence of an action. “However,” he added, “they are my chickadees, therefore I shall not squelch them. I will append PoD and restore chichi [sic], and perhaps that Ambassador will finally return my endless love.” With re–calibrated instruments, the discoverer (all too busy) resumed digital telemetry with the rest of the fleet and proceeded silently into celestial chorus, continuing to brood on problems doubtless fructificating.

Category: Act III Revised Ed.

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