We have trees to prune, cryptograms to decode, it was all a blind running into the light— She couldn’t say the word for “fish.” Nor are his genes undone by what oafish submarines remain. Aye, sir, Captain Nemo, sir, we’ve spotted the junk in the roads up ahead. What! That spasm I created for my own diversion, now it’s clearly emerging out of the octopus drool that so long enshrouded it, while I, a nether spur to its district railway, am overrun with coughing doubt for the duration, yet here I must stand, a seeming enigma. Outside, life prattles on merrily, like an embroidered towel, and would probably be too weak to object if we decided to postpone the picnic until November. I hear you; the arches under the embankment are part of what I’m all about. I too was weaned from excess in some silvery age now lost in a blizzard of envelopes. How frostily jingle the harness bells! It’s all we can do to keep up with the dunce’s velocipede, while in a neutral corner of the quarry the same binge of history is conning men’s eyes into dogged superstition.
