She tells me she is frying eggs on a stove, and that great attention must be paid to the work. If the egg is either too soft or too hard, she has to eat the egg herself, and then begin again. When an egg is perfectly fried, she slices it in half with a knife and then carries it over to the sewing machine. Then she stitches it back together, and uses it in the dress she is making for a baby doll. The dress is being made from a pattern, from these correctly fried eggs that she is sewing together. There is noise from the room above, from a carpenter, and there is a grille between the two rooms, and it is directly above the stove. So as she cooks, sawdust is continually falling through the grille onto her, like snowflakes. The doll's dress is gradually being made. The stove, the sewing-machine, and the grille. The work is taking a long time, because if the egg is not fried correctly, she must eat it herself.


I am in the middle of a hallway, which is dimly lit, and is inside a large 19th century house. I am aware that at the end of the hallway there is a room which is brightly lit and contains perhaps six people. There is a man standing behind me and his right arm is over my shoulder, and it holds a small piece of cloth similar to a handkerchief. He is holding it about 2 inches in front of my mouth, and I am already starting to gag. I am paralysed. Neither of us is moving. I think he intends to close it against my mouth. I am already having trouble breathing.


i dropped my cell by my shelf. buy my sea-shore

zgodiva's horse of sundayswaiting

...................................................Rubbing Your Mercurial Heart With The Head of A Lettuce
...................................................Is As Useful As Forming A Soccer Team In Winter

What do you mean, where do I come from? I come from the working class. (This is a work in progress.)

Waiting for soldiery misfortune, with pockets full of yellow turnips, is like riding a dinasour into one's own mouth,

it sparkles like fear, traversing the frigid canyon of placid kinetics, or supine lice bellowing Someone killed my father!, into a empty warehouse of starlight. A stoned vacancy is my lot.

It beckons collosal reindeer to sublimate the window, or makes mice mellow harp-players at the wrong time. Freedom is nosing in lentil soup whilst pretending to be a piano, or cutting off your big toes and swapping them around. It cuts the bread sideways and leaves a bad taste in the fingers of the bus-stop. You can't call my mother that! Well, that lad with the flat cap shouldn't be holding a sign that says Man killed by clothes.

Craving cream-cakes is the basic duty of any house-wife, which I relish, and wouldn't emigrate to a parlour room without furniture unless my grandma was whistling songs of the civil war, my egg-cup, the turtles of tomorrow are melting in price charles' mouth, which smells of lavender and bridges and billowing pipes railroaded the frog-master in this jittery sleep. Please take that raccoon out of your mouth. I can't, because it's closed. Socks speak for themselves. Elementary school, my dear, watson television tonight?

Either urine trouble, or it's just pee. Hey, peter, paul and shelley, was john in the fridge when tony crept upstairs? I can't remember that tavern in Italy because I wasn't there. But it's good to have prometheus unbound. I'm sorry, but by the time you read this I will be fred. A godiva's horse of sundays has cleared my bookshelves entirely.


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