Securities and Exchange

Opportunity shows itself to the door not properly seated on its hinges. Each time the snare drum mail arrives, I'm in a blanket pondering the cleanest hatch to lift from. It isn't every day a preposition makes you an offer that you can't indemnify. Get lost was all he practiced saying, despite my paying yards of bucks to have her listen to his gibber. Drool ran down what seemed once a coffer, and I held firm to the belief it was whatever I could picture and then scan into my neighbors' heads. What are they thinking to each other without language. The more he doesn't say, the more it costs me. Champions report taking an average dose of the small delicious pink pill of 14.4 milligrams. And that it dampens the downward blink to a degree that's not supported by peculiar body gravity. Relax in the Baroque way of inhering each likely pattern of the stones embedded in my new silk plants supposed to simulate a being that would share this oxygen. The string of words ought to provide a demo mentioning that one had lived within the limits of a certain mood all acre long and spread a little influence like bird seed somewhere bought. It's tempting to give no report at all some days. I hear her skittering in the yard as nervously as something owned. The compass in my pocket points where I direct it. Who's paying bills here. For every furnace that affection comes to, an equal and residual retreat smarts its way back into a centerfold. That would collapse whatever mute extensions happen to occur to the thought process. The concert mistress simply bowled over the thrifty crowd by virtue of how long she'd kept her strings intact.

Knockwurst, tribulations, hosing down the patio and sidewalk, blank paper in the storage shed

Sheila E. Murphy | Intermittencies
Contents | Mudlark No. 8