Monday, January 24, 2011

The Pent Umbrage of the Tempy, Part XXVII

You had walked these streets alone, the mistletoe of stars and glory and vacant windows all blending in to something much less than the substance of letters or words which, though not rendered into a broth or a healing pleasure, nonetheless was of some strange worth, your ectoplasm had said as much. You would not yield to any music which wasn’t given to the new, to the placid, to the pleasure of the familiar, No! To the fertile, which though stinking of a familiar ectoplasm was not an eco-flazza-mamamia-ectocidal, though you very much had thought, very thoughtful, very mindful.


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