#124

Le Leindemain, turn left. You are shorn I shan't be welcome. Cleffed chin. Astrologer's dome a'glit. Hey mister: here is the prattle of your pose. Your heart is not there beyond. Understunt? It's immer die alte Leiner. The organ grinder in shaved silhouette. Operatunity. White dress-shirt, white t-shirt, the bulge of adam's appotrude. Lishen. In the west, the trunkets coil. Hear the brute as thound a Mandarin thong. For if the golden atthle be taken... But less be complitely honest; that is linear, astute.

You are father Hethper's son if he had one, you are Canaan's father-to-be. Keen-eyed brith-ter, singing airily, looking warily, every way. Square describes you in the bar on Friday; "a real ham," he says and grins. And that's the content of your laptop. As the Greeks say, pate'ras. The apple not far from the tree. Sleeping Vista, California. Where the redcombed dragon slumbers, in enfolding purple roads. Mount up! Your lines are drawn, Mr. Leiner. And we hope your stay is pleasant.