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Richard Makin

St Leonards

XXXII

This is a relatively short episode. I am disturbed to hear of the rapacity of your decline, all that empty. I am ashamed I thought so ill of a fiend, but why this irrepressible need to isolate—if it's useful, it'll come back. This chapter concludes with a wonderfully harmonized corral.
I am the winner of the old world competition. Where you can, use simple words (avoid a portentous tone, the symphony of a thousand et cetera). I'm still finding my way around in all this—there's still a chance I might improve by chance.
Huge choral forces are combined in a vast echoing space. It is indeed a horrible thing. He accidentally dies in a sacrificial hippocaust. Now I have to rely on my intuition rather than what I can actually hear.
He tells me that without trepanation of the concrete, rainwater builds up inside the skull causing it to crack and splinter. He rules out a regular polygon of seventeen sides. Bolsters shore up the mind. He wants this inscribed on his tomb. The stonemason refuses: it would be indistinguishable from a circle. He keeps a diary of his discoveries.

There is an alarming conversational tone in his writing. The unconditional appears to amplify existing traits while erasing others completely. It seems to me that those who've been kept alive are the unfortunate ones.
My remaining activities include the trigger projects, like combat and quietude. He says one must believe in possibility in order to be possible.
To renew the world we take the struggle to three fronts. Look stranger, the correct number is probably one of the numbers in your pocket. Perhaps the worse aspect is being. I try to conduct myself as though I'm in a really good situation, rather than a terrible one. The mob is back beneath my window, exhaling.

They wear green triangles, the astrologers. In the compound thornbearing trees and shrubs are ruled by air. Part of my job is inheriting the guests. Their conscious part inflates and floats off like some grotesque dirigible, scurrying after the strings of youth like a posse of drunk ants—or else fails completely into a sound repression. This is not an hereditary condition, but still, it serves to sharpen the mind.

A narrow funnel of light descending through a gap in a cloud.
This is an enormous day. I can hear five or six stitches clacking at once—a sort of dreamworld with hunger-gatherers. My life is the action of collecting. I am glued together and am carefully archiving the things. I am classed as foregoer. He says the soul lies buried in the ink that writes. Did I engine this. Did I write. Either of two trees is all that remains of me.

Tumultuous scene with personifications.
He is not the finished article. The square is still to be circled. A complete set of reading tasks is printed in several languages—tales of living men, prodigies related to the old time of the island.

A confession of horrors.
The moment when he first looks over the wall at the approaching rabble—herdsmen with wit of human bite, panniers filled with gravel and black sandglass, wickerwork for the protecting archers, all dressed up at wrist and hip. Here follows their pelting speech, thick and opaque.
Congratulations, you have been pulled out from the hole—a vacuum dam, with rolling basketheads.

The outskirts of.
A wire anode is surrounded by a cylindrical cathode in a chamber of gas. Snegstone with templehead (just the clay). Modifications have been made—map strata are visible through the membrane. And in one place, a bed of sauce marble. I would like to change some of the things that are said around here. The language I've inherited lacks substance—by this I mean autonomous objecthood.

Descending sales.
I did say they were mere herdsmen. He has bought a strip of land in a poor country far away. Now we are in a time that takes place much much earlier (it is easy this in a book to do this you just say it and it happens). Economy of nil. One cannot choose but wonder at the hissing and cracking behind me, the implosive thud on my collapse of flesh. Delineation has to take place entirely through music, bringing back to the warld a luckless when. I amuse myself by waiting at mealtimes and other skivvying. The voices here belong to one unprepared.

The world's most expensive bicycle.
A surprising tripartite intervention—just what I've been looking for all these years. We need lines of guidance. We need the strange thing in the forest et cetera. The counter triggers. A massive electrical discharge is released. My life is delayed. It resembles an arch. I can be amplified to work. He says writing connects the past, present and future in a way that nothing else can.
A revival takes place. Knowledge is imported, along with a pair of operatic scenes: a brace of anal organs which open and shut transversely, crossing each other out to infinity. I'm a veritable relay team myself, with lace of shell-body, silver.

Hello is everything all right up there.
Are you enjoying. In the middle of the era our word is transferred to judicial torture—a rem state, appropriate to situation. A small elongation of the corolla is observed, a shafty hollow which usually covers my stamen. I tell you, I'm a distinctive type of sleep.

The machine does not appear to enjoy motion.
I must prepare myself. I wake to find a large circular bruise on the upper surface of my left hand, knuckles grazed and raw. There's a frequent siren, a call to work or arms. A smaller red bruise appears the following day. The other inmates pass code via a book about a big fish. I embody a puzzle, the transmutation of goods into commodities. This must move but I lack the wherewithal to do. Today I appear to be right-handed.

Ambient birdsong.
Crushed gull in the street. Volumes have been written on the different meanings I've acquired. A galaxy of beads is strewn across the pavement. She comes with ghost. It's a shame—I am what she is unable to imagine. I am classified as a moral extreme. I have been very very interested in war in my time. Specks of light are picking up dust and reflecting them back into my eyes. It's not the ideal circumference. This means I can't see the words clearly any more. Things come when you need them, like the music girl.

His forbearance to obey is alarming.
Still he responds to my concern. He is unarmed and unnamed. He's found wandering in the desert. A greyish-white crust rests on his scalp. It's said he resembles the lemur, or burning bush baby. The blind cracks. He is now called That-Which-Supports. I can't keep up with all these changes. He sits in a cave with an hourglass in one hand and a beard. He has strict orders not to accept. These words are a safeguard (it's hoped) by the overlapping of demons with angels. Bring on the alarm. The beard once belonging to an old goatfish from sunrise.

Allow me to ruin some ideas by you.
There's a hand grenade on the floor at my feet. I'll leave it there or I will forget. The seven earths are joined to the seven heavens by vast hooks attached to their rims. Obviously the plan was. It's the only way. My inventiveness is inexhaustible. I am going to speak to people. I am back living with the old timer. It clicks and rusts audibly. Could I have a number, please. The girl does not understand.
Perhaps the worst thing about being is that it doesn't actually kill you. If you want to go in, go in. My first thought is always to write—something with faint allusions to roomness, and in my usual fracture, the by now familiar disconnect, all the time clinging onto a bundle of nerves. I operate at the lip of the earth's crust, where the whole threatens total collapse.

Intercellular space, patterns of cross-stratification (as seen in my different actions).
We have discussed the programme. Will the young bereft. He says he can only do one to six. All these possibilities fall within the scope of irrational explanation. Outside is a big blue blanket with a rope and anchor. I feel old. There is something called tact involved. This is very important when working people. I am a derivative of step seven. I am trying to build a really solid state which can rely on itself—an if wherein people speak to one another. I have a stone in my shoe. It is our secret.

I am not temperamentally suited to anything on offer. I once had the intention, even before extracts were around. Now we find ourselves back in the terrible year (give detail of this).
He emerges from his cellar to find the three adjacent houses have been hit. He notes a variation in the ripple crest pattern. The other citizens have been loaned voices to express themselves. You have of course been milking them. The orchestration thickens. I am just being honest. Even the way we touch hands, the eye contract. The surface of the world is so smooth. We have a single job: to stay on the island. We have a moral. We are flung back to the beginning, but with completely different dissonances and suspensions. It's like a time machine made of sandbags—wire and string. I subvert. The fighting begins: the cry of a puma, spilled contents of the inner sac et cetera. Now to eat their flesh. It's slow work moving the rubble, and the little people soon tire. The words are accompanied by a photograph entirely disconnected from the cell (a meteorite crater in a desert). Typical little acid structures remain. There are two aspects that were actually planned. One is variation in rate and supply of sediment. Keep sound out of this. Breach the afternoon. Needles to say.
It seems to me, he says, that we still live in a gathersome world.

Restructure this from every aspect. The official letter is named mu. Naming begins. We're fucked—often mad, usually angry.
Respond. Enter in at the narrowest slit. The door bangs shut. Trade carpet bombing begins. This is not a comfortable situation. I do not want to think. Did I make the right decision. We are both looking at this in the same way. There's a difference between I don't know you and you don't know me. The only object in the room is a sacred picture facing east. You stand without. The true name begins with the letter M, the amplification factor of my valve. You begin to knock at the door.

Roles I've been dreaming of undertaking.
I'm found between the anode and the grid potentials. I am necessary. I maintain my current at some confused value (there's a lot of used sound around here). You see, it represents with yellow prisms, Abraham et al, circular corn stores—all the chemistry of penicillin, pressed. Bitter poisonous principle in the seeds: decalcification is taking place. I'm unique to the specific thing, a red staining fluid used in history. I am the source book—I mean this is a source book. At one time I might have ended up over there, with myself.
Yes I have. I have at the centre of a nervous system of unwrapped zones. The core is frequent. It is massive quartz. Then I read your request for something fairly straight, which is fine too. I want to impose three alternative endings, sprinkled with well-formed crystals of feldspar, beryl and possibly containing pockets—moral cavities lined with spores. This isn't really the time to do this. I don't want to find myself flung back into the second case. We're doing a picture of the world. On and on and on the questions go. He is speaking but saying nothing. Let me know when you think. It's basically a free creative state, without organs. I am projected forward by a childlike simplicity.

All right the clerk says at last from learned reflex. Today you are invited to hose down our triggers. The subject is regularly deprived of the opportunity to dream. The woman, who turns out to be, is searched. She is found to have a loaded gun on her person.
Just let me know when you need me. Skullbolsters have been ordered and are in the post.

Yes they like it.
Towards a new centre of power, down the corridors. A snide trumpet blast before the final crash. He is more filler than polymath. We cannot be certain of him. I language: his trust is not. We cannot contain him. His breath hovers in the air, tiny frozen droplets of soul, one bystander silent before another.
Now I am going to wait and listen. Legend has it. The composition harks back to the very first day—an opera in your living room. It is not made of stone but mash and paper, chewed. It's quite reassuring that these monsters are still out there floating about. I am today pondering the coyness of my bruises.

Do you stand by a signal.
One, the time has got to be right.
Two.
She climbs on the bed to listen at the wall.
There is a one and a two, but there is no three.

Crop Circe, one of those time-pressed people. An episode foreshadowed by the dead.
When you have a backdrop like this—with knives, hammers and a meat cleaver—it's the signal to leave and never come back. She crosses over from the other side to lay my mind to rest. The name given is that of a southern constellation (the iliac crest). I'm no longer a recognizable place.

Locomotor magic, night apparatus.
Big fat hard impossible tomes, well founded. I am happily invented, if untrue. It's about word of mouth really—word fading into light. I am probably shining white, with an hundred eyes.

A name is given to the planet, on uncertain grounds. The surge is a tactical success but a strategic failure. They agree to a bizarre process of redaction (not me). We find ourselves at a place where Europeans are prominent. There's a giant monolith painted grey. It's called Gabriel's lament. There is a clattering that resembles shells striking against each other. To add to our sorrows I must inform you of a dismal flight that's to take place.

She is slain instantly by a bolt of summer lightning. Our hostess is examined in detail and found to be intact. These stories, as you see, are all scandalous.

The lost art of embalming.
Pernicious mummy—a mythic figure, or the author himself. A new disease of bright brown liquid breaks, intermediate in tint between burnt umber and raw. To recover: a thick drink that is acid, and rack a vessel onto the remaining casks. Step longer and further again, and again besides. This has all to be delivered in a voice. It's time is now. All about us in the forest the cries of sacred brutes—bulls and panthers and crocodiles. There's never been a day like this in the domestic household, when all chaos is set loose.
They have moved me out of the corridor by unlocking a door that is two yards away. Bridges fashioned from creepers divide everything. I am no longer visible from the air. I propose to give my names an armature. I am stationary while the field is revolving. I may be likened to the keeper of a magnet. I'm suspended in a bath of carbon dioxide. This is not looking good.

What she hears.
He writes chamber music in his spare time. It is lyric: hunterlike her bow she bares, her flock flies with the wind, and suchlike.

Things could still get worse.
We find ourselves on a deserted plateau. It's like an oil painting. A small piece of this plain, seen on edge, is visible from the moon. It's the surface of nonconformity seen in Figure 113. He chooses numbers at random and all goes well.

An explosive thud as each tree bursts into flame. She has kept the letter. She says igniter fuel is good for removing words. There is little time left for reflection (ten minutes).

His forehead is scarred and he has aged into two unstoppable melodies. He hath a volatile quality that keeps you on the edge of your seat. Of course he is right half of the time. Now I find myself at work in an interim space, with only the periodic table for company. The panther is a melanic form of leopard, I hear.
See notes on the heart and crossbones, the constellation prize—the loss by people of control over their own production.

A man watering his planets.
We have now reached a stage that superficially resembles. Like some other books this one doesn't really end, or start for that matter. For some reason I don't think we're going to make it home. War mosaics are swirling about in my head. For some reason I didn't think you were ever going to come.
He values the protection of a pocket to operate in: an injection—pure adrenalin of expectation. It's nine years in the making, a big chunk of life. The structure is two-tiered on three sides. It's a question of combinations. The colour is amazing—the Adriatic I hunger. It's a question of momenta. I am clumsy today. I keep dropping things and my organs dribble (pecks of glass). I can't believe I'm still doing this.
He writes that a flaring light like a tiny history is harboured within me. The chosen object is flag-blue, which would normally have hardened into dirt. My outermost border has a denticulated edge. In my hand I hold an astrolabe—a quadrant, or the like. He ponders things deeply and peaks in riddles. The interchanges that take place between these three objects can only be guessed at: not a brick of the original building survives. He closes the book and we take our leave.

Splashes of black very noticeable. One of us lives in shadow, one in the light. He sits down and waits. He will take you apart. The chintz opposite flexes, and is then still. All eyes in the room fasten onto him. He's lost his upright shape. He is composed of currents of silverwhite light—fracture of limbus.

I don't usually structure (hysteria). A vine is running helterskelter across the roof of the cabin. His object is to erect a system of rigid scientific code. It's your first time, isn't it. And then she says, men owe us what we imagine they will give us.

Today I am symbol G. I need only a few hours in which to learn everything. Units of magnetic flux play a part in my destiny. It makes that noise when it gives up the ghost.
Let me introduce you.
I am equal to the tesla ray. All my citizens learn to live, to reason, and then to die (the loss of control over our own production). And those phantasms of the living who react so strongly, well, because it has been kept in a box, it is a complete thing of beauty. A sea of tranquil ghost gas.

Speed up, psyche—Greek-godded, with flutterbyes. By contrast the brown muslin, I pale grey without. And racemes of blue-lilac papilonacreous flowers.
A man is seen throwing stones at a dog in the water. Only the last chapter has been cut open and read. It has written itself in straightcrested ripples.
Coptic.
Everything's under control, a descendant of language.

An ironic youth in a turndown collar. He is bound in frost with a strip of black ribbon. He is rendered hell in the old England. It's a long journey back, isn't it.
Female without wings.

Of things.
She is arrested and taken away. She is found to possess no person, no noun. It is an impossible. I too am the only one, the name of one of the asteroids.

A meteoric creator in a desert.
A probe, imitative. There is light enough to see. A limb with five digits. Blood Rorschach on well, on causeway of flagstone paving. I ask myself the question. My conductors are mounted on an iron structure, a would-be musical instrument. He is waiting for error.
They each have a different person bringing them back to life. Are you aware of what you are about to lose, of what you could lose. In those days we were living in a vacuum state. Enormous pressure now. She says she once existed in a perpetual state of war. Another vision of the same story comes next.

Two men are standing on either side of a chasm. The scene is a projective test in which the subject's reactions to random ink and fungal shapes are analysed and found wanting. Arm and shoulder and leg patterns hinder. The findings are used as a guide through the landscape. The tale is about a seeker-out of heresies and deviations from universally accepted dogma. But what about the voices of the dead, the phantom visitation—a certain quality of hospitality and satanic humour? They are just staring at that white line in front of them, stock still and doing nothing. The instrumental line-up includes a tank of carbon dioxide and the burning of a horse in sacrifice. I've got myself a new sponsor. Should we make a bet. I am accompanied by my own reputation. I kow-tow, strike head to floor. When dried in the sun and the shell rubbed off, the local worms are edible. In terms of my general shape, I move off hiphop-hiphop. This occasion is a thousand times better than drawing any conclusion from within the world itself. Why doesn't he do this sort of thing more often.

Being which one has towards.
Yes he says all day I box them up and they are sent off all over the world they come from outer space I think don't we all.

The eighth day.
Signs of life. The pelvic arch. This is a brutal match. When the section is complete the blade of the knife emerges zero point five to one point nothing millimetres beyond the corneal side of limbo. This is a brutal commentary. It's a definite tactic: sun overhead, the heat from the platform beneath her. We have reasoned our way back to a still earlier time, when there was a thick sequence of undisturbed events. We are slowly roasting her back to life.
Your eldest have foredoomed themselves. It's admirable. As I speak a harpsichord is shunted into the room. If I had only known yesterday what I know today.

When falling into sleep there is a square of dark within which phantoms throb. He says I am a haven of sorts. He is very low about losing his mind. I would never have come if I had known. He says I am barren, I precipitate a great schism in the tilled earth—a spirit level of silence.
I am taking up my station inside the limit of the place and time named, to the precise day.

Why this reluctance to move. I can only see my pessimism growing, gaining in strength and resolve. My iron bar is gripped tightly. In this paragraph I don't feel particularly close to myself. Bless you. It's been a week of musical decadence. Nonetheless, it's clear to the touch. This is a close race. He comes. He is curative substance. The shells of the boulder clay are of a species I've never seen before. He finds the rest of the company at the brink of sleep. Their eyes are heavy. I am humming a tricky little love song. He says to them, did you never read in the words.

He sits at her bedside and recites a favoured tale. She sleeps. She dies. There are still pieces of this missing. Only in the meantime has a context name.

A bit of string, and the eyeball pops back in. Times are hard in the aftermath. This shows how fast the brain can actually work. It's a written rule that you can't appeal after looking. The title is a name—a bold stroke impersonated by another character at an earlier part of the play. Hardy buds sprout from cracks in the rock. Simony is universal. His minerals are arranged in more or less parallel manner. He's kept in a big box in the dark.

Evaporating schist lickers.
The beginning of the last chapter is magnificent. It's clay contains an abundance of fossils. All the lenses are trained. It's like grass. Become a mere bystander. You never know how it's going to go in the shadow. He looks the part in his cape and hat.

Their eyelids red from sleep, they hand each other the remarkable. Then one says, as you think, so you are, no.

Oxyrhynchus. Papyri and tyrant flycatcher—the Greek retroversion.
The plan seems to work right up until the final moment of execution (no he can't walk). He cannot talk. It's the all-important moment in the novel. He comes with a wormlike tongue and an acute bill—a list of enforced error. He communicates through an alphabet board. We've waited a long time for this. I blink and miss it. I hold in my right paw a tube, a strip of catgut and plastic. It resonates to the voice.
He sees before him on the ground a freshly clubbed lawkeep.
Much summer lightning. Horses pull us the rest of the way. Ropes are attached to ankles.

I am absolute ordeal. An event once took place near here. We decide to pack and lock everything up and leave. Mneme can't be limited to organic substance.

My velocity wanes from thirty-six to eighteen names per second. I terminate and liquefy. Perhaps the worse aspect is that in its early stages the subject is aware of and can observe its own fracture and disintegration—demise is beautifully written out. This is another example of seeing according to an interpretation. I promise to do quieter stuff in future.

The golden vulture is the foremost of its kind. An emergency appears to be wrapped around its claw: passive devotional contemplation, extinction of the will, a withdrawal from things—discharge of acquittance.

The disinterested stoics.
Almost all of his body is hurting. Something small but bothersome is occurring.

A glass clock is extracted from his head. A part of me has begun play-acting again.
The heat. You're making me think, aren't you. A wellknown property of the juice is to enlarge the bull of the eye—the so-called axeman's stroke.

The marked vagaries of my own body.
I am moulding into the chair. Bystanders stand around and devour each other all day. This is becoming quite a little story on its own. The stations of life he says, I'm exiled from them. And our ancestor, those of us who still have one—it must be somewhere.

Their ages lie initially in the ratio of sixteen to zero. The troops thrice in order lead their courses round the dead. I do know that this is not concerned with the things of memory. A magnet shuttles between my poles.

A sunwise turn stored in its original box, unopened away from the light. In moving down the group there is an increase in metallic character. He says I sense you've come from far Sirius. This year has been pretty easy. He's having a hard time stopping, the chief of this constellation. I am fenced in at the muscular partition between thorax and abdomen. He flashes forth sinister lights. The intensity in his eyes is incredible. Hold your nerve. We can't the know the body of the state. This specious reasoning is nevertheless false: you're not happy here on this planet, but it was your decision to leave. The question is not of promises mutual. As well as this he knows the name of the man who answered the three riddles.
Bring everyone.
Stop.
Bring the money.
Stop.
Bring.

A big V of swarming birds swoops down in a cloud then rises again, falling to settle on the ledge of rocks exposed at low tide. The sky turns black. Sinuouscrested feathering high in the air. It's like before the explosion that killed off the horizon. We stand at the shoreline and gaze out to sea. We're waiting for something, for happenstance. A word is what's unsaid, the hollow pierced through my foot from top to sole. The pencilled annotations are my original.

Actus reus. Estuarial.
In a nearby café a man with a double-bass bangs a woman's head repeatedly against a marble wall. I'm a testing ground, a figure caught up in motion.
See text to self. See voice to self.
I pass a face on a corrugated roof, upwardturning to distant star.
He has become visibly nervous. Insects are pouring into the compound. He is at the halfway stage. There is not much he can do about this.

I would see in the massing cloud intimations of outlines mirroring the maps I hungered. A white rainbow or luminous ring is seen during his reign, opposite the sun—the circle of hallo. Avian swarms, dispeopled worlds. The door is left slightly ajar. Diagonal shadow now casting east. The semblance of the tidal bore to the movement of running cattle is established.

She is itself. I wonder what it's like back in England. Near the top there's a lake in which the wrecks of ships float to the surface. She is a capable slayer.

Notes on the solar eclipse found behind the sofa.
We'll have to go through the whole process again, continue dervishing around. It's a long walk back to this second. He gets up and starts running to the open space, where the light is. The disc in question is projected against the wall of my cell.

Themes for solitary contemplation.
Boolean ring, a riot of birds. Salt is mixed with borax and a molten head. Appear only directly, or by recommendation. This is an operation dependant on the application of algebra. You can feel the tension everywhere now. The phenomenon is unnamed: AB means a and b, see.
The usage of books, creasing, gently.

Arguably this is the greatest chamber left within him. Somewhere in this act is a good few minutes—by extension a rent, a split, a cleft. The manuscript seems to have gone missing in the interim. Maybe it's time for some toast.

He says I feel so full of full today. I'm glad I wore my steel toes, for fear of levitation—there being no such hard pressure, no gravitation. All the weight is in my second movement. All very dicey nice indeed: A is now safely back in A.
In less than an hour we've seen the complete range of human emotion and experience, published in fragments. I am recommending telepathy. This is an extraordinary moment of flux. I am recommending sky. Out of this flux emerges the opening theme—it is the town of our choice and right on the lake. I am recommending a hatred which is legitimate. Once the musicians have taken up their places in the chapel they can commence, and we can leave this life for good. I am recommending the end of story, the end of plotline. This is like no other place in the world. Narrative is hegemonic—there, I've said it. I think that's solved that little problem.
Another option is to compose an inventory of all the books and objects in the cell (I hear he loves lists).

Of the unit or primary delta.
I am war exhaust. There's a whole dimension of me that's currently missing. I believe in you: as in the watered heads of old the snake. He's executed in the republic square, a nightsent psychic guard. And no animals, that's for sure: no dogs, no chickens, no bones, no horses, no lemurs, no cats. Pleasure monkey is without use, he say—smell of people and kaka round the walls. Changes are being made to accommodate me. I am trying being at its parameters. Each of my intercepts is cancelled on its axis. Now for a quick break—disordered and perverted memory.

I retell him of the meaning of words. My usually ends unequalled in déjà vu. I am retold again and again. I admire. I tell and retell myself in rapid succession. The tide gradually turns. He is mistaken for a face. The story gradually reverts to the past, to tense. The level of the ocean rises to the level of the lake. He relies on librettos that are secondhand and second rate. The tip of a mast breaks the surface. The outflow of water ceases.
Thankyou I enjoyed reading the blue book is beautiful in its coffin box. Sharpsnouted and spitnosed epithet of fish, sacred with esteem.
That lunge into again.

To spread a net. To set the trap or snare.
Also to set in any position. This thing called more.

I will never forget my first full march (long).
We come across a pyramid of skulls, a relic of the island's sinister past. The size of the atom increases. She will be here for three centuries. I defy any one of you to offer another explanation (café gourmand—deathbed—the green house—the metro). She shares with all else: man highskulled, buy the yard.

Barren is my soul, with faulted cunninghead.
He lures people in. I am worried I will forget the thing of the glass. He physically seems to be. Add newtons throughout.

News from where.
A man is engaged in sinking an artesian well. There's a taut feeling in the air (I think I've found your glasses). It's doomsday once more. These are great numbers—part of the mysteries associated with the name, or with writing. We're spoken with a silence when filled. It's a strange and spooky incident, pure action, with no deliberation.
His brother calls to say mother is dying. He always had a great understanding of geometry. His speech is distorted, as though the mouth is injured. It's as though he no longer belongs, is written as a fleeing moment—mutely, the gentle rock of memory.

I am an instrumental maker. My hardness is measured by the size of my indentation. I am a product of substance. Steps will be taken to unsure this never happens again.

Night pieces, where P is the test load in grams.
The tide is low. The channel is very muddy. There's an oyster catcher. The elderflower is out. The sky is heavy with cloud, topped with vents of magnetic origin. Boardwalks winding everywhere. People cluster—no one takes any notice. It's like a bibulous apocalypse, that extraordinary world: keep what's written in it. I adapt a new proof of what I already know. The action is simple. He is back in the garden in his working clothes. Listen to this. One influences the other.
List his injuries.
The thrapple is crushed. His teeth are cut. The hand is fractured.
Now it's time for his famous revival. By day a list of scattered remains is drawn up.

For example.
A body of men. Countless nightmoored phantasies, never settling for long on any particular topic, before restlessly moving on. They lead in a line longer than any another, one much and much outstretched in every measure. He dies on the day of his wedding day.

Mine arm is out of lith.
The term has been extended to cover not only the iron core but also the wires attached to it. His perfectly preserved body is found years later, a veil of cloth wound about his head. Only the eyes are left uncovered. The masons reject one of the stones.

Dictionary.
Dial now, while it's free. There's no security of performance on either side. He's lost his remaining disciple. I believe he has been in the crowd all the time—a fixed star of the first magnitude.
Titanium: the graphic form of that last apparition. A visible fragment is trapped at the root of his jaw. I am exiled because I want nothing. I don't know he says, I may never know.

She sits alone in her garden. I can't say she looks like the fulcrum girl, but memory's not what it is. Sunlight batters at the high Elizabethan wall. The temperature in the enclosed space soars. A high ridge exists between us on both sides, sliding steeply into embankments that stretch to the floor of a ravine. Where do I know you from. Two areas of depression descend more or less in the form of steps. We are torn apart. A voice remains. We have what we shall extinguish. There's an ancient city we reach over a bridge spanning water. To making use of a common word, I am likened to a horse. Our bodies are embalmed. We breathe.

He undertakes no risk-related work. The operands and results take on either the valve or the state. The diode is best and biggest, they say. It is never open.

I am a force of motion foresaid in movement. From my foot I dig out a tubular plug of flesh. Two black tassles are attached to one end, the flat tips of which were visible on the surface of the sole, like a grotesque corn. I am the colloquial impetus. Peering down the hollow, I can see daylight through my foot. I embody the climax of a struggle. It's so much easier after you get broken. I am the moment when suddenly and dramatically one is face to face. The custom of touching the ground with the forehead is a crucial part of this interweaving of action and reminiscence.

The main wad.
With our remote dislocation, we're set a world apart. This is simply pragmatic (shaking palsy and Saint Francis' fire). This sacred site for heads is guarded by a crocodile. A disease of the nervous stem is spreading. The name belongs originally and properly to the Nile in the sky.

A round building with a conical or vaulted roof.
Within it is a diamond indenter of specified shape (pyramid). I am burdened by an unknown load—the after-effect, the simulation of an ancestor.

If the word had survived its form would have been. Like those thuds, gusts, blasts and battering storms that beat against thy wall. Not firm or solid—clicking unsound.
Thunderhead summer cumulus, highstacked and not solid in a thingness. But now can no man see none elusive more? He fastens a ring of soft wax to the greater end of the body frame. Facts he says are things and phenomena, portable surveying instruments.

I often find that I like what you write in brackets. I like the appearance of the voice I hear within me. There's a high rate of sediment supply here today. But hold on, everything I do is noted down in my diary, then forgotten.
The thing of the dog in the water, earlier—I'm told it should read for not at.
See undercrop.

Grown electric.
Everyone will work, there are no exceptions. I don't know why he says I am never here. We are numbered two of seven. He is so much more daedal. Gold is the colour of a winner.
She says it feels like living in a novel.

This part is about the corridor, when he fately looks back.
This is a stymie, it must be said. It is all of a year that has passed by now. What will your own approach consist of.

With energy drawn deep from volcanic pills, he forces his opponent back inside the chalk circle. Lo, it is he that infects all the world. There are two circles, the smaller, of white marble, is raised a little above the surface of the earth. The larger is black and of far greater circumference—it being the cast shadow of the smaller. He sits silently within this circle for a while, before answering his inquisitor.
They dare. On the pavement is a galaxy strewn of white stars. The director conducts by remote control. At his feet sits his faithful chimp. Three solemn masonic strings are called. Murmuring they dare not he goes to sleep as usual. Who is this man who without death ventures through the kingdom.

Mens rea.
These decorations have significance for the journey. The popular conscience won't permit him to enjoy any act. Passes must be presented to extend in any direction. He's content within his isolation. In future, remember it's better to be cut from live wood.
It was one of those bizarre and exciting glimpses through the fog. In many countries it's thought to take the form. Shake these words all together, gather up your belonging, and leave.

Key. An exploding horse on a deserted beach (he has this equine thing at the moment).
This is valid for any logical operation worked out on the digits of a severed hand. We're treated like serfs and dogs. In a single generation the city where he was born and which he had grown to love is transformed into a capitalist workcamp. There's a car chase and some shooting (are you really going to take a bow at this crucial stage). Here, people absorb experience at one remove.
She is one who comes to a place for political ends. This is going to be a bittersweet moment, isn't it. Just for me, cause something to rise and remain suspended, the way only you can, she says.
New sets and costumes are introduced. She carries her property qualification for citizenship in a little sack. A policemen takes a bullet in the arm. Now we know what she's capable of. That's all I can say about this right now.

Illustrative reconstruction of the anatomy of an angel.
The creature rears up in a grey void. Ground zero: powdered nothing—ash of cipher. We're at the point in our orbit which is the greatest distance from base. I too am at the heigth of my power (the spinning distaff). A cleft stick three feet long is embedded in the ground infront of me. He's magnanimous to everyone he defeats. I must change my name for a name I feel more at home within.

I have three companions, a tradesman, a townsman, and the third a villager. The latter can no longer tolerate the inessential. This type of plot device often crops up in my operas. They are founded on the score of a devotion.
She assures the trio that she's only pretending.
One sits too close. They are off on a pilgrimage to a noted sanctuary. In the grey routine of work the glory of her inner begins to fade. I release her flap and she spins off into deep space. Visions begin to fail. We will never see her again.

They have nothing to eat. In memoriam she's declared an impact player. We are looking at clarinets this week, soft and reedy.

Not seeing at all then, really.
Its magnificent chesnut head is caught in a turn to three-quarter. We will never see the like of him again. He has vanished from the radar. It's a shame as I was growing to like the old bastard. The effect is like endless flights of stairs interweaving on different levels. I remember his layered wall of sound: wheezing accordion, tubular bell, the head of a discarded doll, the top of a stocking, an angel bouncing on a mattress, someone counting out loud, the loop of sound, the consequence of your actions, the scraped guitar, the anonymity, the rusty hinge, the bolt of lightning, the key on the cuttle fish, the camera obscura, the nail in the blackbird, the flute and the penwhistle, the jaw harp, the tooth fracture, the radiator from space, the harvomica, the blue clarinet, the radio on (kingfisher from Bristol), the twisted dial, my echolalia. It goes on and on until it drowns in an infinite pool of sound.

All this amounts to is a deep scratch in the soil. It tastes like black chicken they say. The visitation, it fadeth. The involuntary and spasmodic grin consequent on some morbid condition is evident. The corners of the mouth retract into an unmarketable smile (risk sardonic). With an inner voice the riverran, she say.
I am exhaust. The feeling that the present is a fragment of past experience lingers—as in psyche-knot (of head of haar), psyche-mould, psyche task.

Old men on the beach comparing wayfare. The nation unites in one event. Two, three, sometimes four lofty waves follow each other rapidly—a skewing of the emotional constellation of the moment. I'm left without visible means. Use magnetic force, the countless disruptions of history.

The name of an ancient sophism, or dilemma.
Can air be taut.
This part complements the aforementioned framing device. Here he judges the members of his court and causes them to fall from heaven. We really need someone who's a little bit electric (eleven is the answer to the number, by the way).

She has studied mute conversation. Chains are worn in self-mortification—you can feel the vibration down her arm. I try to keep my repertoire up to the minute and abreast of musical developments.

As predicted, he's now in complete control. His sudden death puts a stop to all his plans (or rather, they have to change).
There's no longer any iron at the core. It's hazy out there, look. The rest is somewhere in storage. Time remains oppressive, with suspension of acts and sensations—contraction of each jaw, titanic spasms of speech act et cetera. Glossolalia in the ossuary.
I am the cornerhead. Diversion ends here: suspension of volunteer emotion, spasmodic tremors of the limbs, the earth.
Brightdayler. Last word. Go on.
Dogster.