#113

Un ouef. Not one, but twain. Two yellow suns. An ouvre. Add and twinge. Mangiare. I am, imagine, Stephen. One-for-two, or one. The bibliopeilon's doubled mirror, two hands on flesh, and s'exclament, "Suffice!" Auto-felictous onomastics. Myth of la nourishing mano.

Which means that I do it myself. No fund for our aural economies. "We grant you know, gratis." That means, I think Stephen, degage. And "apply, apply, apply" them, sons, and they will praise our use of statistics. The weighted shoulder, we self-ephebes. A napsack or two in green.

And on the street, it's Valerie. It's John and Scott, it's morning. Blue shoes, blue shorts, blue sky and rain. The grass. The lure of Aristophanes. Adhere. And there. Return thus in a twinkling. A leather bag, bookladen, hides on me what throbs. And dinner, mind you. Apres-midi. Now's not the time for celerity.