The risks and complications fall into three categories. I begin slow; it takes three months of work to recover. Those left lie flat and still on the ground. I need the quit mornings to gather up my strays: air always comes first.
He rinses the bone. A message is isolated, its syllables placed in a certain order to avoid disaster (the same can be said of their random situation). The machine is quiet today. He says each pair must be numbered. The world resembles him by a name, we call this the silent condition.
The less they're handled the better. They say if you reach through the ennui you may touch. That encounter did a curious thing to you. It occurs. In the embers a rib with clung tissue. The snow index is eighteen deep.
I'd like a room the man says in a voice. The family implodes. He says there is an outside that is also inside. A metal plate is screwed into his skull while he sleeps. He lights up. The sky is pink and blue, pretty very, he adds. What are you going to do when it reaches the end, trace the history of his malevolence, his volatility? All the males have little pits or swellings in the neck they share. Clay packs the room to the ceiling.
The pancreatic juice. The rain with the smell of earth. Acrid black pours from the vent at the rear of the Victoriana—leaving-takings all round. My accomplices, islanders to a man, sit their ground before unflinching ranks of stout, heads twisted round toward the circumference of the pit. This could be more playful: an image of a huge pendulum, such as we see in antique clocks. The ends are brought together and hauled. And he says, these two must be numbered. His magnet rests on the brain. This area is a self clearing area. If I knew, I don't suppose I would tell of it.
In low arc across the sky. He tries to anticipate when more daylight will come. His gland discharges into islands of tissue, thick stuff of coagulated blood—the mixture of different elements in the substitution of a body, the mingling and contraction of two howls into one long howl. Surgical removal takes place beneath the valance of his bed. What remains is hanged at sun-up. I can't do this any more, sorry (obtunding influence).
A small trading vessel was formerly used. There is something in the appearance of the machine which causes me to regret its proximity. Its position is immediately above my own; once set in motion its sweep is brief and slow. I watch for some minutes before turning my eyes upon the other objects in the cell. How it survived cooking I'll never know. Something breaks through and apologizes.
Seacanny, steersman or quartermaster, named by lascars from rudder confused with sea. See seer-fish, whole.
A bleak corridor lined with dun-coloured roots that have burst through the walls. The purloined letter, the oblong box—in other words, all the principles of my concealment. Remove to a distance for the sake of farness. The wrong kind of snow has been delivered. List, please, a sore with multiples, a room full of light. For the first time ever I feel I want to return.
I am drawn. It's uncertain whether we'll be here even one hour more. This last assumption is our own and is indisputable. Hold back. Upward sweep of a concrete stairwell. A medicinal substance to aid dissidence is prepared from the pancreas of an animal.
One passes with ear. As soon as I get back I start cooking what's left. There's no point going any further. His is a glaucous-leaved kind, at sway upon the horizontal iron. Forgive me my tardiness, the lived has become full of the living. I'm not taking the others with me; I'm leaving them behind. Uncouple the wagons.
Others besides me are compelled by the good news. It never comes to light, but this much becomes clear over time, once the ended has, once the outcome. He cleverly alternates my erasures. Can we have some tension music, please. Basal thud into memory.
I begin an inventory of my scissions. The outcome: it depends what you want. Then comes a remark that joints many games and a dog, a coloured sky coloured purple-grey, all set behind us (the metal). A silverlead roof slides open. The tendons ache but I prefer the book of my hours arranged thus; it is, as they say, a matter of indifference. I keep poaching (a bird, one of the stilts). It was like being pinned beneath the hull of a capsized boat, salt for air. The scope of this I carry, not as said but in actuality, not his misleading radiance, grey and that nearly lens he stooped over into the guise. So many of their pledges die of compromise, well-intentioned reconciliations. Write stet against him. Cancel his correction.
She's not like that; I'm going back. The country should know of it. My room shall face south, though it's pointless to say so. I'm without head or compass. At night I spy several tall planets. My taskmasters set out. I write a letter to the bureau: please allow me to introduce myself, I'm a hardtopped convert, a loose die rattling in the meter. Now she's in office reading fortunes (my truth is a sinecure). Her book presents a snag: the irreducible modality of the perhaps.
Ground saxifrage is found dangling from our resident poets—the great St Johns—ivy-leaved toadflax or other mullein, tall-stiff with yellowflowering stem of hagtaper—shepherd's club, Adam's flannel or Aaron's rod. There's an upright division between the light of the windows, aspergill of pepper-water, with gold lever or other instrument. It'll probably end with a sound affect, entire constellations.
I imagine it'll look better when the time comes to hand it over. He stays his ground with reluctance. Note the haste with which fragments are written down before the thought can slip away, the alternatives and the erasures, the disposition of his parts. I think too some trace of the original, my residua. Three strokes are played out, no more. I valve.
What if she reneges, leaving me wedged between undercliff and marina. One dies of starburst. We could talk about your fear of inertia, we could talk about your fear of motion. Another dies of the suddens, an unexpected science befalls him and he is outdone. She has to stay longer than the rest.
I don't think this for one monument. A portable sun-dial of cylindrical form was used in the early years. Forgetting is my domain; it doesn't matter which order you place him in. Most people still use the old system—you know in part from the shapes that can, the true stomach of ruminants.
Singult. Through the which he is made. Someone hurls glass. You have to turn it upon its crank—it's an office and it's a void. I will begin by admitting. It embeds itself in the 'bossed paper spreading across the wall, above and a little to the left of the head. Friday night and the angel. I reflect that mister had been a good master, in his own way. On the mathematical plane of the cycloid is a figure like a circle, its curve traced by a point on the circumference rolling along in a straight line. He's a person of temperament, having scales with even borders. You'll know him by the little pits that float before your eyes. Have your code ready.
I've an unbinding sense that everything here is discontinuous. I paste its members to the floor and wait for a second opinion. Into his poor suburbs a defeat. The wreckers preserve their names in water and survive us. The time is too clock. An assassin shelters beneath the eavesdrip. See, we have the story all set up, at least a rough sketch, but I can't see much of this persisting beyond the moment. Keep nerve, my dear, never away except together, and below he sees the road and the bridge and the long long lines.
Left from the perspective of the hurler. Leave it there. A small two-masted vessel. They may have yet the witness, the good eyes, the lamp. You are not, are you.
I'm going to ask you to share your experience with the others.
How. Gentle touch of keys upon the eyeclad, metal cold and sharp blood taste across the tongue. She had in her brain more than three years alone with the old grey mutter. Today seems improbable. I don't seem ready to count on the distinction between who and what. Now move to note. I cross to her side of the room to retrieve something, but once there forget what it is. I want a second opinion; any inertia and it ruptures. The coach is number seven of eight. She overhears an anonymous telling that he is. Everyone is better off remaining still. It's dark. Give yourself option while she's still here.
I doubt much. The argument is set. You have to draw out the wrong conclusions. She is no longer the abject of the letter. Each comes with its own fruit and an obsolete form. One sheet remains, stretched taut across the link to span a void. It's a fucking trial, generally speaking, bursting with invisible offence.
Of or pertaining to dawn leads us to eoan. For this I am completely unprepared.
He is moved to pen three more: here then are faces — weft across warp, the schismatic pattern like in that old joke. I am surprised to see him gone. Tireless hard labour in the water engine, unfolding the structure of the mark. I get no reply.
The wax tablet in the tin drum
is poised to rerun.
Tympan alley. Oath me down to a fault. Use diffident textures; I'm a reasonable man. Mine is a spectacular discipline, I recall only one occasion when I couldn't bring myself. The limit is a beyond within which the subject stands. There's a chapel at the crest of the hill, now off-shore, an island separated from the body by a narrow channel. You were afraid to dive deep and breathe clear. Salt water slaps against hardness. Take this back to there and leave yourself out—gentle, graceful and absurd. Be sure to compensate him for all his disappointments, for his creant sadness.
A piece of coombe rock may be nailed across the thing to keep it in place. Divination on this occasion is by lot, staving off the pain of hunger or fast. Easy does it. He makes a brew of the clot-bur, prickly seedcase that cleaveth to many clothes, with hooked involucral bracts and harbour leaves, a ring rapt of thin-beaten ones strung about a capitulation. Think of something, quick, while we try to extinguish its word.
She says this year upon year, and nothing happens. A blank is driven out of the sheet by a well-delivered punch. Something seems to stick in the throat, murmuring susurrus between small empty cells. In composition, partly vilified brick with barbed pupae.
Small valley, hollow. Alumnus with horsemen. Admixture of errors: I write myself instructions on slips of paper and glue them to the inside of my encasing plaster. Is this your first day. Yes. What are we going to do now. Yes: anything arched or vaulted, with same colour patterns different, including a part of her tongue. Articulation is formed by the fit of one bone into the groove of another. Now gather her in.
One big self is tending to the wounded. Establish criteria and wait: sometimes the fire, sometimes the water, sometimes the fog. Now he comes with his groins. Staying here won't tell us anything new. There's a skirmish about some bounds they have, nomadic herds droving about from then to now.
She tells me she is, but I can't know. For sure, her body expresses the sum of her peculiarities. She turns about a new bird impression. Write the opposite: the octave of festival, in time of war with all the force of our owners. She walks back into the house. The happiest she. The dressing of stone.
A scar of paper which he thereafter carries on his person is sewn into a hem of his clothing. His implacable eye is flipped open with one index, one simple primary function. The terrain here is low-roofed and dorsal.
Diverted aground, I've followed the game further by dint of being alive. The body is a flesh body, with anatomic melancholy. It's broken in at the outset of an instrumental volume, a narration that risks overlooking the quick. Head current sunk into heavy earth main. The door shudders and the dark is stricken with luminous bulbs of light. He's peeled back to the lode, at one with the muscle (something we call a situation). This coffee on the house business will one day alter the course of his life, all the more when we find obvious contradictions. He will forever be fifteen minutes in lieu of time. Look at the ticket, costermonger—cost it, teller of heads.
After that encounter comes an immense: desert tourism, caesura. We tend to stay in unison, like one placed first in a random distribution of ghosts. He doesn't recognize this at the time. Stretching without is the big wine-dark, a whole sphere of antitheses, twisted sunwise and I so desperately to sleep. Here it stands for the literal meaning and should be returned once used, reinstated for its ownmost, its outbidden. I think at last we've found a suitable site: this heap is witness, this pillar is witness.
They watch him go. He tries to put his head on and then loses it. It rolls in the road. He goes on with elbows bent into a crook, growing small on the plain. He rubs his skin with gunpowder and stuffs clumps of dried grass between the lips of his wound. There's a noticeable lack of demeanour about the scene, albeit a generous surfeit of bathos.
See them, how low into the long walk they crouch, with scant mettle and obsolete gain. A lead roof across from the drop glistens in the consuming air. I think language comes into it at some point.
We walked a mile and more eastward and found nothing. What's missing is what renders steady. He presses the leaves of trees and plants into his daybook.
A page missing blanks. With his skull inside grammar he's gone, never to be repealed. It's simply not possible today. Does he have a social, like one who shares a familiar, our malignancy? Take any part of the edible flesh and leave. No curious study himself, and she: conflictatrix.
He perceives that his shadow fails to show on the wall. Things are getting tricky. Bargain for it alphabetic: roc to syl, the fog et cetera. Opinion A: Do Minimum, Option B: Acquire Another. I think that's numerical fire: a snug village in a crease of land, possibly tamarisk, possibly growing a name to the family, with English seas shored up above our heads. We'll do whatever comes first and take it from there.
The approach to the valley.
The swung track.
A hard area of risen skin with detachable core.
However we have a lady on the line. She will remove for you.
The departing relief though maybe the last. So many times this way yet nothing hinders. A gentle grief, better aloud yet not, no bell to culminate the unmistakable charge. Deep brown bordering black, she writes, his bell-rattle.