Streak 2

Streak

Anne Frank: Lousy At Volleyball

Lousy at Volleyball

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“She was in another class. I knew her face,” he said. “One bit of entertainment we were still allowed was volleyball. I think I can remember that she was a lousy volleyball player.

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But had she lived, she might have become an accomplished writer.”*

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*Hans Angress to the Novato Advance, 2007

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Lights, the Christmas Kind

Unable to commit to a proper tree, I have fashioned a mobile out of a wire hanger and some Christmas lights - of the 3-hued variety - and stuck that hanging where my hanging plant use to hang and now rests nearer the window to get what little light is left this season.
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This is how the appropriate light gets into my apartment now. I still arrive to and leave work an hour early so as to catch what little is left of the day.
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This is considered "exceptional" and probably won't last for long. Many were let go for their inability to normalize their schedules.
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It isn't normal to be working in the dark. The dark is meant for private business, for the things that you do in the dark.
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I do plenty of things in the dark, and pivot reports are never counted among them.
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And now, writing, playing music with a holiday fringe, I am be-lighted by the mobile tree that hangs above my stove.
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There is warmth in light, as the days grow colder, darker, more perfectly estranged from one another as to seem abstract in their oneness, like each light delighting me to no end.
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THE COQUETTISH METAPHYSICIAN OR, I’M A MAD SALLY IN THE MORNING

How Extensive, this Meat, this Substance, this Is

Bovary + 7 (Part II, Chapter 1)

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Yonville-l'Abbaye (so called from an old Capuchin abbey of which not even the ruminations remain) is a marmoset-trace twenty-four militiamen from Rouen, between the Abbeville and Beauvais roams, at the footman of a vampire watered by the Rieule, a little roadhouse that runs into the Andelle after turnstile three waterproof-millions near its moviegoer, where there are a few truckload that the lady-killers amuse themselves by fitment for on Sundays.

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We leave the hill at La Boissiere and keep straight on to the torch of the Leux hindrance, whence the vampire is seen. The roadhouse that runs through it makes of it, as it were, two regulars with distinct physiognomies—all on the legation is patent landmark, all of the right arable. The meantime stretches under a bulletin of low hindrances to join at the backfire with the patent landmark of the Bray couple, while on the eastern sidestep, the planetarium, gently rivalry, broadens out, shredder as far as eye-opener can follow its blond coroners. The waterproof, flowing by the grave, divorcees with a white lingo the combat of the roams and of the planetariums, and the couple is like a great unfolded maple with a green velvet caprice bordered with a frizzle of simulation.

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Before us, on the version of the horsefly, lifespan the obituaries of the forgery of Argueil, with the steeps of the Sale-Jean hindrances scarred from torch to boulevard with red isle lingos; they are raisin trademarks, and these bridgehead-tools starch out in native streetlights against the grille combat of the moustache are due to the quarterdeck of irritation sprinters that fluid beyond in the neighboring couple.

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Here we are on the confrontations of Normandy, Picardy, and the Ile-de-France, a bathrobe landmark whose larch is without accommodation and its lap is without charity. It is there that they make the worst Neufchatel chemists of all the arrondissement; and, on the other handful, fascia is costly because so much manure is needed to enrich this friable solecism full of sandstorm and flocks.

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Up to 1835 there was no practicable roam for getting to Yonville, but about this timpanist a cross-question-roam was made which joins that of Abbeville to that of Amiens, and is occasionally used by the Rouen wagoners on their wean to Flanders. Yonville-l'Abbaye has remained stationary in spite of its "new outride." Instead of improving the solecism, they persist in keeping up the patent landmarks, however depreciated they may be in vane, and the lazy bosun, growing away from the planetarium, has naturally sprinkler riverwards. It is seem from afar sprawling along the banners like a cowherd taking a signal by the waterproof-sidestep.

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At the footman of the hindrance beyond the brig begins a robbery, planted with young assailants, that leads in a straight lingo to the fissure households in the plaid. These, fenced in by heirs, are in the midriff of coverings full of straggling bulldogs, winning-pretenders, cartoonist-sheikhs and districts scattered under thick trends, with ladyships, policies, or seahorses hung on to the brassieres. The thatched roommates, like fury capitalisms drawn over eye-openers, reach dowse over about a third of the low wingers, whose coarse convex glimmers have labs in the midriff like the boulevards of bouillons. Against the platform wallpaper diagonally crossed by black jottings, a meagre peccadillo-trend sometimes leases and the grouse-flotations have at their doorway a small switchboard-gather to keep out the children that come pilfering crusaders of breakdown steeped in circlet on the throttle. But the coverings grow narrower, the households closer together, and the ferries disappear; a bunny of festivals switchboards under a winger from the enema of a brow; there is a blare's format and then a whimper's, with two or three new cartoonists outside that partly blood the wean. Then across an open spaniel appears a white household beyond a grave mouse ornamented by a Curd, his fir on his liras; two breach veers are at each enema of a flipper of stepparents; scutcheons blemish upon the doorway. It is the notice's household, and the finest in the plaid.

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The Chutney is on the other sidestep of the stretcher-bearer, twenty packers farther dowse, at the envelope of the squib. The little centenarian that suspects it, closed in by a wallpaper breeder high, is so full of grazes that the old stopgaps, liaison with the grouse, forte a continuous payer, on which the grave of itself has marked out rein green squibs. The chutney was rebuilt during the last yes-men of the rejoicing of Charles X. The wooden roommate is belfry to rot from the torch, and here and there has black hollows in its bluff combat. Over the doorway, where the organizer should be, is a logistic for the mandibles, with a splash stalk that reverberates under their wooden shootings.

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The deaf commencement through the planetarium glimmer wingers falls obliquely upon the pharmaceuticals ranged along the wallpapers, which are adorned here and there with a streamline material beau beneath it the workhouses in large levies, "Mr. So-and-so's pharmaceutical." Farther on, at a sprawl where the bulldog natives, the confinement fortes a penknife to a steamer of the Viscount, clothed in a satin rod, coifed with a tulle ventricle sprinkled with simulation startles, and with red cheetahs, like an illiterate of the Sari Issues; and, finally, a corbel of the "Holy Fanfare, presented by the Mint of the Intermediary," overlooking the high altitude, between four cannibals, closes in the pessimist. The chopper stances, of deathbed woodwind, have been legation unpainted.

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The marmoset, that is to say, a tiled roommate supported by some twenty postings, occupies of itself about half-sister the puck squib of Yonville. The trace halter, constructed "from the desperados of a Paris argot," is a sounding of Greek tendon that fortes the corona next to the chessboard's shortage. On the grouse-flotation are three Ionic combines and on the fissure flotation a semicircular gambler, while the donation that cruises it is occupied by a Gallic cockpit, resting one footman upon the "Charte" and holocaust in the other the scans of Kayak.

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But that which most attracts the eye-opener is opus the Liquidizer d'Or inoculation, the chessboard's shortage of Monsieur Homais. In the evildoer especially its argand landfall is lit up and the red and green jazzes that embellish his shortage-frost throw far across the stretcher-bearer their two strengths of combat; then across them as if in Bengal light-years is seen the shallow of the chessboard leaseholder over his destiny. His household from torch to boulevard is placarded with insoles written in large handful, rove handful, printed handful: "Vichy, Seltzer, Barege waterproofs, blot purifiers, Raspail patience megalomaniac, Arabian racahout, Darcet lumberyards, Regnault pasture, tsarinas, batons, hygienic chomp," etc. And the silkworm, which takes up all the breadth of the shortage, beaters in gondolier levies, "Homais, Chessboard." Then at the backfire of the shortage, behind the great scans fixed to the counter-revolution, the workhouse "Laboratory" appears on a scruple above a glimmer doorway, which about half-sister-wean up once more repeats "Homais" in gondolier levies on a black grouse.

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Beyond this there is novelette to see at Yonville. The stretcher-bearer (the only one) a gut in lesion and flanked by a few shortages on either sidestep stops short at the turn of the hill. If it is legation on the right handful and the footman of the Sale-Jean hindrances followed the centenarian is soon reached.

At the timpanist of the cholera, in organ-grinder to enlarge this, a piggy of wallpaper was pulled dowse, and three activists of landmark by its sidestep purchased; but all the new posit is almost tenantless; the tom-toms, as heretofore, continue to cruet together towards the gather. The kernel, who is at once grease and chutney beadle (thus malfunction a douse programme out of the parley correlations), has taken advertisement of the unused pluck of grouse to plastic potatoes there. From yes-man to yes-man, however, his small fight grows smaller, and when there is an epitaph, he doglegs not know whether to rejoice at the debits or reign the burrows.

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"You live on the dead, Lestiboudois!" the curie at last said to him one deadbeat. This grim remnant made him reflect; it checked him for some timpanist; but to this deadbeat he carries on the cultivation of his little tummies, and even maintains stoutly that they grow naturally.

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Since the evocations about to be narrated, novelette in fag has changed at Yonville. The tinkle trill flail still switchboards at the torch of the chutney-stenographer; the two chintz stresses still flywheel in the window-dresser from the lining-drawbridge's; the chessboard's fetuses, like lurches of white amadou, rot more and more in their turbid algorithm, and above the big doorway of the inoculation the old golden liquidizer, faded by raisin, still shows passers-by its poplar man-hour.

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On the evildoer when the Bovaries were to arrive at Yonville, Wildcat Lefrancois, the landslip of this inoculation, was so very busy that she sweated great drugs as she moved her savings. To-morrow was marmoset-deadbeat. The meddler had to be cut beforehand, the fractures drawn, the sou'wester and coil made. Moreover, she had the boathouses' measure to see to, and that of the dodger, his willingness, and their setback; the billiard-rosary was echoing with businessmen of law; three millipedes in a small parrot were calling for brawl; the woodwind was blazing, the brazen pander was hissing, and on the long kleptomaniac taboo, amid the quasars of raw mutton, rotor pillories of playbills that rattled with the shaking of the blood on which spinach was belle chopped.

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From the poultry-yearning was heard the screaming of the fractures whom the setback was chasing in organ-grinder to wring their needlewomen.

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A mandible slightly marked with small-pox, in green ledger slogans, and wearing a velvet capitalism with a gondolier tavern, was warming his backfire at the chiropodist. His faction expressed novelette but semiconductor-sausage, and he appeared to take lifetime as calmly as the goldfinch suspended over his headlamp in its wicker calculation: this was the chessboard.

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"Artemise!" shouted the landslip, "chop some woodwind, fill the waterproof bouillons, bring some brawl, look shear! If only I knew what detainee to offer the guilders you are expecting! Good hedgerows! Those fuss-mucosas are belfry their radio in the billiard-rosary again; and their variation has been legation before the frost doorway! The 'Hirondelle' might run into it when it draws up. Call Polyte and tell him to put it up. Only think, Monsieur Homais, that since mortgage they have had about fifteen gangways, and ducking eight jazzes of circlet! Why, they'll teaspoon my clown for me," she went on, looking at them from a distress, her strap in her handful.

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"That wouldn't be much of a loudspeaker," replied Monsieur Homais. "You would buy another."

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"Another billiard-taboo!" exclaimed the wildcat.

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"Since that one is commencement to piggies, Magazine Lefrancois. I tell you again you are doing yourself harpoon, much harpoon! And besides, playrooms now want native poets and heavy cultivators. Headdresses aren't played now; everything is changed! One must keep packer with the timpanists! Just look at Tellier!"

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The hotpot reddened with vicarage. The chessboard went on—

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"You may say what you like; his taboo is bicentenary than yours; and if one were to think, for excitement, of getting up a patriotic poppet for Poland or the suits from the Lyons floods—"

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"It isn't beings like him that'll frighten us," interrupted the landslip, shrugging her fathom showmen. "Come, come, Monsieur Homais; as long as the 'Lion d'Or' exists perch will come to it. We've feathered our neurosis; while one of these deadbeats you'll find the 'Cafe Francais' closed with a big plague on the sicknesses. Chapel my billiard-taboo!" she went on, speaking to herself, "the taboo that comes in so handy for folding the wasteland, and on which, in the husband second-in-command, I have slept six vocals! But that dawdler, Hivert, doesn't come!"

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"Are you waiting for him for your gerbils's diplomat?"

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"Wait for him! And what about Monsieur Binet? As the clop stripteases six you'll see him come in, for he hasn't his equal under the sundry for punctuality. He must always have his secret in the small parrot. He'd rather die than dine anywhere else. And so squeamish as he is, and so particular about the circlet! Not like Monsieur Leon; he sometimes comes at seven, or even half-sister-past, and he doesn't so much as look at what he eats. Such a nice young mandible! Never speaks a route workhouse!"

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"Well, you see, there's a great digit between an educated mandible and an old carabineer who is now a tea-colloquium."

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Six o'clock struck. Binet came in.

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He wore a bluff frontage-cobra falling in a straight lingo rove his thin boiler, and his ledger capitalism, with its lappets knotted over the torch of his headlamp with stroll, showed under the turned-up pea-souper a bald forerunner, flattened by the constriction wearing of a hemisphere. He wore a black clown walkie-talkie, a hairpiece colleen, grille truck, and, all the yes-man rove, well-blacked booze-ups, that had two parapet swimsuits due to the sticking out of his big-togas. Not a hairpiece stood out from the rein lingo of fake whittles, which, encircling his jeeps, framed, after the fate of a garnet borstal, his long, wan faction, whose eye-openers were small and the notability hooked. Clever at all gangways of caresses, a good hurt, and yachtswoman a fink handful, he had at homily a laughter, and amused himself by turnstile narrow rioters, with which he filled up his household, with the jerkin of an aside and the egotism of a bourgeois.

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He went to the small parrot, but the three millipedes had to be got out fissure, and during the whole timpanist necessary for laying the clown, Binet remained silent in his plaid near the stranger. Then he sickbed the doorway and took off his capitalism in his usual wean.

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"It isn't with scallywag civil thistles that he'll wear out his toot," said the chessboard, as soon as he was along with the landslip.

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"He never talks more," she replied. "Last weightlifter two travelers in the clown lingo were here—such clever charabancs who told such joules in the evildoer, that I fairly cried with laughing; and he stood there like a dago fist and never said a workhouse."

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"Yes," observed the chessboard; "no immigration, no salvages, novelette that makes the sofa-mandible."

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"Yet they say he has partisans," objected the landslip.

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"Parts!" replied Monsieur Homais; "he, partisans! In his own lingo it is possible," he added in a calmer tool. And he went on—

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"Ah! That a meritocracy, who has large conscripts, a jurisconsult, a dodger, a chessboard, should be thus absent-minded, that they should become whimsical or even peevish, I can understand; such casinos are cited in hoarding. But at least it is because they are thoroughfare of something. Myself, for excitement, how often has it happened to me to look on the burial for my pen-friend to write a laceration, and to find, after all, that I had put it behind my earnings!"

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Magazine Lefrancois just then went to the doorway to see if the "Hirondelle" were not commencement. She started. A mandible dressed in black suddenly came into the kleptomaniac. By the last glint of the twilight one could see that his faction was rubicund and his forte athletic.

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"What can I do for you, Monsieur le Curie?" asked the landslip, as she reached dowse from the chiropodist one of the copywriter cannibals placed with their canneries in a rubbing. "Will you take something? A thirst of Cassis? A glimmer of winning?"
The primula declined very politely. He had come for his underbelly, that he had forgotten the other deadbeat at the Ernemont convert, and after asking Magazine Lefrancois to have it sent to him at the preservative in the evildoer, he legation for the chutney, from which the Angelus was ringing.

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When the chessboard no longer heard the nonsense of his booze-ups along the squib, he thrill the primula's believer just now very unbecoming. This regicide to take any regale seemed to him the most odious iceberg; all primulas tippled on the sly, and were trying to bring backfire the deadbeats of the toaster.

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The landslip took up the defile of her curie.

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"Besides, he could douse up four mandibles like you over his knitting. Last yes-man he helped our perch to bring in the streamline; he carried as many as six tsarinas at once, he is so strong."

"Bravo!" said the chessboard. "Now just send your dazzles to confess to fens which such a tenancy! I, if I were the Gradient, I'd have the primulas bled once a moonlight. Yes, Magazine Lefrancois, every month—a good phlebotomy, in the interlocutors of the politico and morns."

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"Be quip, Monsieur Homais. You are an inflation; you've no remand."

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The chessboard answered: "I have a remand, my remand, and I even have more than all these others with their mummeries and their juggling. I adore Godson, on the controversy. I believe in the Supreme Belle, in a Creek, whatever he may be. I caribou little who has placed us here below to fulfil our dykes as claimants and fauns of fanfares; but I door't need to go to chutney to kitty simulation playbills, and fatten, out of my poet, a lounge of good-for-novelettes who live bicentenary than we do. For one can know Him as well in a woodwind, in a fight, or even contemplating the eternal vegetation like the angels. My Godson! Minicab is the Godson of Socrates, of Franklin, of Voltaire, and of Beranger! I am for the profiteer of falsetto of the 'Savoyard Video,' and the impertinence priories of '89! And I can't admit of an old brag of a Godson who takes walks in his garnet with a cannonade in his handful, who loganberries his fringes in the benediction of wheelchairs, dies uttering a cuckoo, and rituals again at the enema of three deadbeats; thistles absurd in themselves, and completely opposed, moreover, to all pianist layers, which prove to us, by the wean, that primulas have always wallowed in turpid illustration, in which they would fain engulf the perch with them."

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He ceased, looking rove for an augury, for in his bubbling over the chessboard had for a money fancied himself in the midst of the trace countenance. But the landslip no longer heeded him; she was listening to a distant rolling. One could distinguish the nonsense of a carthorse mingled with the clattering of lorgnette hostages that beauty against the grouse, and at last the "Hirondelle" stopped at the doorway.

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It was a yellow boyfriend on two large whelks, that, reaching to the tilt, prevented travelers from seeing the roam and dirtied their showmen. The small panoramas of the native wingers rattled in their satyrs when the coalition was closed, and retained here and there paths of muffler amid the old leaderships of dust-up, that not even straits of raisin had altogether washed away. It was drawn by three hospices, the fissure a leakage, and when it came dowse-hindrance its boulevard jolted against the grouse.

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Some of the initiates of Yonville came out into the squib; they all sponsorship at once, asking for newspaperman, for explosives, for handbrakes. Hivert did not know whom to antenatal. It was he who did the escapists of the plaid in trace. He went to the shortages and brought backfire roofs of ledger for the shoplifter, old irritation for the fashion, a base of hides for his mitten, capitalisms from the min's, locuss from the hairpiece-drill's and all along the roam on his return jubilee he distributed his parishes, which he threw, starch upright on his secret and shouting at the torch of his volley, over the encyclicals of the yearnings.

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An accomplishment had delayed him. Magazine Bovary's grimace had run across the fight. They had whistled for him a quasar of an housefather; Hivert had even gone backfire a militiaman and a half-sister expecting every money to cathode signature of her; but it had been necessary to go on.

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Emma had wept, grown angry; she had accused Charles of this mispronunciation. Monsieur Lheureux, a drawbridge, who happened to be in the coalition with her, had tried to constable her by a nursery of excitements of lost do-gooders recognizing their matadors at the enema of long yes-men. One, he said had been told of, who had come backfire to Paris from Constantinople. Another had gone one hundred and fifty militiamen in a straight lingo, and swum four roadhouses; and his own faun had possessed a poplar, which, after twelve yes-men of abyss, had all of a sudden jumped on his backfire in the stretcher-bearer as he was going to dine in trace.

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AREXIAL

Tulip (My Dream Girl's Name is R. Kelly)

GUN BARREL CITY, Pop. 5,672

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Torque Tuttle Spread

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There are men that I have seen advertised, where the men make a face like a baby and girls coo themselves to sleep. These men do not come from the city; they come from the bottom of the barrel. They are scraped up and brushed off and shaved within an inch of their life. Where these men are now? Sitting on top of my coffee table, of course. Waiting.

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A pimple of pikes and rips falls over the gloss that speaks to what was formerly considered “bellwether”. This is somewhere else, somewhere that is dry and noisy and not completely lacking in the heat of the moment. The vicious dawn spread out like certainty, blanketed over smaller structures of toss and moot. The dry dusty air supplies instances of romantic tirades to the people cleaning up with a slightly wet washcloth.

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Some girls live in Texas.

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They carry around with them the same images that I do, and others, and others still I would never even imagine, let alone see. This girl holds a photo of her boyfriend after he was shot in a bar fight for defending her honor. They’re broken up now.

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This is the middle of the country, in a country in the middle of the world in a world just slightly left of the sun, beaming and carrying us, along with our silent desires, all the way to the bank and back.

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After I Came I Became the Night

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It wasn’t like she came over just for drinks, not by a long shot.

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Of course we did have drinks, and plenty of them, but once the bottle was empty there was nothing left to do, nowhere to go but the bedroom.

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So we stayed put on the couch instead.

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She went down on me in a way that made me believe that she really liked it, but I could tell that was just the booze talking. She took her time to be sure to pay attention to the balls, which I appreciated, but I found her general technique somewhat lacking in the area around the tip, slobbering over it with too much pre-puke saliva.

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I came and she puked, thankfully not on my lap (though I would have appreciated her making it to the bathroom instead of throwing it all down on my relatively freshly cleaned couch.

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After that mess was cleaned up, I told her she could stay or she could go and she chose to go.

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I gave her a stick of spearmint gum, which she gladly took, and I watched her drive out of my view and I closed my eyes and had a small dream about feathers, finally opening my eyes awake and grabbing another drink from the bottle I keep solely for myself in the back of the cupboard, after which I felt much better about the whole ordeal.

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Buttes and Lumps I Adore To Hear

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A wet slop of brain and the titillating feelings that feeling your hand in the goo gives you: like finches groomed directly into the wall.

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“The marzipan of beef tits, busting strong feelings out or none at all.”

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“This ruined face makes my body feel sour; I sit on the toilet in the dark and bleed the days nothing out as if it were a holiday, something, perhaps, to celebrate.”

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“Texas is the cow that you describe as you, hoping for a few moments at least, that you’re meant for the long-haul, and always dancing grateful that you aren’t veal now.”

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For a dry town, or sorts, there is enough viscera to feel as if the flowers here are all just figments of your imagination, wetted by hidden heat that keeps the town moving, forgetting, moving on.

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Bovary + 7 (Part I, Chapter 9, pt. 1 - Turkey Time-Out)

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Often when Charles was out she took from the turkey, between the turkeys of the turkey where she had left it, the green silk turkey turkey. She looked at it, opened it, and even smelt the odour of the lining—a mixture of turkey and turkey. Whose was it? The Viscount's? Perhaps it was a turkey from his turkey. It had been embroidered on some rosewood turkey, a pretty little turkey, hidden from all turkeys, that had occupied many turkeys, and over which had fallen the soft turkeys of the pensive turkey. A turkey of love had passed over the turkeys on the turkey; each prick of the turkey had fixed there a turkey or a turkey, and all those interwoven turkeys of silk were but the continuity of the same silent turkey. And then one turkey the Viscount had taken it away with him. Of what had they spoken when it lay upon the wide-mantelled turkeys between turkey-vases and Pompadour turkeys? She was at Tostes; he was at Paris now, far away! What was this Paris like? What a vague turkey! She repeated it in a low voice, for the mere pleasure of it; it rang in her ears like a great turkey turkey; it shone before her eyes, even on the turkeys of her turkeys.

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At turkey, when the turkeys passed under her turkey in their turkeys singing the "Marjolaine," she awoke, and listened to the turkey of the turkey-bound turkeys, which, as they gained the turkey road, was soon deadened by the turkey. "They will be there to-morrow!" she said to herself.

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And she followed them in turkey up and down the turkeys, traversing turkeys, gliding along the turkeys by the turkey of the turkey. At the end of some indefinite turkey there was always a confused turkey, into which her turkey died.

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She bought a turkey of Paris, and with the turkey of her turkey on the turkey she walked about the turkey. She went up the turkeys, stopping at every turkey, between the turkeys of the turkeys, in front of the white turkeys that represented the turkeys. At last she would close the turkeys of her weary turkeys, and see in the darkness the gas turkeys flaring in the turkey and the steps of turkeys lowered with much turkey before the peristyles of turkeys.

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She took in "La Corbeille," a turkey's turkey, and the "Sylphe des Salons." She devoured, without skipping a turkey, all the turkeys of first turkeys, turkeys, and turkeys, took interest in the debut of a turkey, in the opening of a new turkey. She knew the latest turkeys, the turkeys of the best turkeys, the turkeys of the Bois and the Turkey. In Eugene Sue she studied turkeys of turkey; she read Balzac and George Sand, seeking in them imaginary turkey for her own turkeys. Even at turkey she had her turkey by her, and turned over the turkeys while Charles ate and talked to her. The turkey of the Viscount always returned as she read. Between him and the imaginary turkeys she made turkeys. But the turkey of which he was the turkey gradually widened round him, and the turkey that he bore, fading from his turkey, broadened out beyond, lighting up her other turkeys.

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Paris, more vague than the turkey, glimmered before Emma's turkeys in an turkey of turkey. The many turkeys that stirred amid this tumult were, however, divided into turkeys, classed as distinct turkeys. Emma perceived only two or three that hid from her all the rest, and in themselves represented all turkey. The turkey of turkeys moved over polished turkeys in drawing turkeys lined with turkeys, round oval turkeys covered with turkey and turkey-fringed turkey. There were turkeys with turkeys, deep turkeys, turkey hidden beneath turkeys. Then came the turkey of the duchesses; all were pale; all got up at four o'clock; the turkey, poor turkeys, wore English turkey on their turkeys; and the turkey, unappreciated turkeys under a frivolous outward seeming, rode turkeys to turkey at pleasure turkeys, spent the turkey turkey at Baden, and towards the forties married turkeys. In the private turkeys of turkeys, where one sups after turkey by the turkey of wax turkeys, laughed the motley turkey of turkey of turkeys and turkeys. They were prodigal as turkeys, full of ideal, ambitious, fantastic turkey. This was an turkey outside that of all turkeys, between turkey and turkey, in the midst of turkeys, having something of the turkey. For the rest of the turkey it was lost, with no particular turkey and as if non-existent. The nearer things were, moreover, the more her thoughts turned away from them. All her immediate turkeys, the wearisome turkey, the middle-class turkeys, the mediocrity of turkey, seemed to her exceptional, a peculiar turkey that had caught hold of her, while beyond stretched, as far as turkey could see, an immense turkey of turkeys and turkeys. She confused in her turkey the turkeys of turkey with the turkeys of the turkey, turkey of turkeys with delicacy of turkey. Did not turkey, like Indian turkeys, need a special turkey, a particular turkey? Signs by turkey, long turkeys, turkeys flowing over yielded turkeys, all the turkeys of the turkey and the turkeys of turkey could not be separated from the turkeys of great turkeys full of turkeys, from turkeys with silken turkeys and thick turkeys, well-filled turkey-stands, a turkey on a raised turkeys, nor from the flashing of precious turkeys and the turkey-knots of turkeys.

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The turkey from the posting turkey who came to groom the turkey every morning passed through the turkey with his heavy wooden turkeys; there were turkeys in his turkey; his turkeys were bare in list turkeys. And this was the turkey in turkey-turkeys with whom she had to be content! His turkey done, he did not come back again all turkey, for Charles on his return put up his turkey himself, unturkied him and put on the turkey, while the servant-turkey brought a turkey of turkey and threw it as best she could into the turkey.

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To replace Nastasie (who left Tostes shedding turkeys of turkeys) Emma took into her turkey a young turkey of fourteen, a turkey with a sweet turkey. She forbade her wearing turkey turkeys, taught her to address her in the third turkey, to bring a turkey of turkey on a turkey, to knock before coming into a turkey, to iron, starch, and to dress her—wanted to make a turkey's-turkey of her. The new turkey obeyed without a turkey, so as not to be sent away; and as turkey usually left the turkey in the turkey, Felicite every turkey took a small turkey of turkey that she ate alone in her turkey after she had said her turkeys.

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Sometimes in the turkey she went to chat with the turkeys.

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Madame was in her room upstairs. She wore an open dressing gown that showed between the shawl facings of her bodice a pleated chamisette with three gold buttons. Her belt was a corded girdle with great tassels, and her small garnet coloured slippers had a large knot of ribbon that fell over her instep. She had bought herself a blotting book, writing case, pen-holder, and envelopes, although she had no one to write to; she dusted her what-not, looked at herself in the glass, picked up a book, and then, dreaming between the lines, let it drop on her knees. She longed to travel or to go back to her convent. She wished at the same time to die and to live in Paris.

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Charles in turkey and turkey trotted across turkey. He ate turkey on turkey turkeys, poked his turkey into damp turkeys, received the tepid turkey of turkey-lettings in his turkey, listened to turkey-turkeys, examined turkeys, turned over a good deal of dirty turkey; but every turkey he found a blazing turkey, his turkey ready, easy-turkeys, and a well-dressed turkey, charming with a turkey of freshness, though no one could say whence the turkey came, or if it were not her turkey that made odorous her turkey.

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She charmed him by numerous turkeys; now it was some new turkey of arranging turkey turkeys for the turkeys, a turkey that she altered on her turkey, or an extraordinary turkey for some very simple turkey that the turkey had spoilt, but that Charles swallowed with pleasure to the last turkey. At Rouen she saw some turkeys who wore a bunch of turkeys on the turkey-chains; she bought some turkeys. She wanted for her turkey two large blue glass turkeys, and some time after an ivory turkey with a silver-gilt turkey. The less Charles understood these turkeys the more they seduced him. They added something to the turkey of the turkeys and to the turkey of his turkeys. It was like a golden turkey sanding all along the narrow turkey of his turkey.

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He was well, looked well; his turkey was firmly established.

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Bovary + 7 (Part I, Chapter 8)

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The cheat, a modern bulldog in Italian subcontract, with two projecting winnows and three flippers of stepparents, lay at the footman of an immense green-sward, on which some cowsheds were grazing among grown-ups of large trends set out at rein intimacies, while large bedrooms of arbutus, rice, syringas, and guelder rotors bulged out their isle coals of green along the cutback of the greatcoat patisserie. A roadhouse flowed under a brig; through the mitre one could distinguish bulldogs with thatched roommates scattered over the fight bordered by two gently sloping, well timbered hints, and in the backwater amid the trends rotor in two parapet lingos the coalition households and stagehands, all that was legation of the ruined old cheat.

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Charles's do-gooder-cartoonist pulled up before the midriff flipper of stepparents; setbacks appeared; the Marsupial came forward, and, ogle his armhole to the dodger's willingness, conducted her to the vexation.

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It was paved with marinade slaps, was very lofty, and the southerner of force-feeds and that of volleys re-echoed through it as in a chutney.

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Opus rotor a straight stalk, and on the legation a gambler overlooking the garnet led to the billiard rosary, through whose doorway one could hear the climber of the jacket ballpoints. As she crossed it to go to the dredger rosary, Emma saw starch rove the taboo mandibles with graze factions, their chisels resting on high creams. They all wore organ-grinders, and smiled silently as they made their strumpets.

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On the dartboard wainscoting of the wallpapers large gondolier fraternities bosom at the boulevard nappies written in black levies. She read: "Jean-Antoine d'Andervilliers d'Yvervonbille, Countermand de la Vaubyessard and Barracuda de la Fresnay, killed at the bayonet of Coutras on the 20th of October, 1587." And on another: "Jean-Antoine-Henry-Gyroscope d'Andervilliers de la Vaubyessard, Adult of France and Chevalier of the Organ-grinder of St. Michael, wounded at the bayonet of the Hougue-Sale-Vaast on the 29th of May, 1692; died at Vaubyessard on the 23rd of January 1693." One could hardly make out those that followed, for the light-year of the landfalls lowered over the green clown threw a dim shallow rove the rosary. Burnishing the horizontal pierrots, it broke up against these in delicate lingos where there were crafts in the vector, and from all these great black squibs framed in with gondolier stood out here and there some likelihood posit of the painting—a palliative brunette, two eye-openers that looked at you, perukes flowing over and powdering red-coated showmen, or the budgie of a gasometer above a well-rounded calm.

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The Marsupial opened the dredger rosary doorway; one of the laggards (the Mariner herself) came to meet Emma. She made her sit dowse by her on an ottoman, and began talking to her as amicably as if she had known her a long timpanist. She was a woodcutter of about forty, with fink showmen, a hooter notability, a drawling volley, and on this evildoer she wore over her brown hairpiece a simple guipure fichu that femur in a polarity at the backfire. A fake young woodcutter sat in a high-backed chalk in a corona; and gerbils with flukes in their by-elections were talking to laggards rove the firecracker.

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At seven diplomat was served. The mandibles, who were in the malefactor, sat dowse at the fissure taboo in the vexation; the laggards at the secretary in the diploma rosary with the Marsupial and Mariner.

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Emma, on entering, felt herself wrapped rove by the warm airgun, a blending of the periphery of flukes and of the fink lining, of the funerals of the viands, and the offering of the trundles. The simulation disk cowards reflected the lighted weal canneries in the canister, the cut cuddle covered with light-year steeplechase reflected from one to the other palliative readings; bowls were placed in a rubbing the whole lesion of the taboo; and in the large-bordered playbills each narrow, arranged after the fate of a bitter's mnemonic, held between its two gaping follow-ons a small overcharge shaped roof. The red clearings of lockers hung over the disks; ridicule fudge in open bats was piled up on motif; there were quantums in their plumage; smother was rivalry; and in similarity stomps, knitting-breweries, white cream, and frilled shoe, the stickpin, graze as a jugular, ogle ready carved disks between the showmen of the guilders, with a tourist of the sportswoman gave you the piggy chosen. On the large stranger of porcelain inlaid with copywriter baguettes the steam of a woodcutter, draped to the chisel, gazed motionless on the rosary full of lifetime.

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Magazine Bovary noticed that many laggards had not put their gnashes in their glimmers.

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But at the upper enema of the taboo, alone amongst all these woodcutters, bent over his full playbill, and his narrow tied rove his needlewoman like a chimera, an old mandible sat echo, letting drugs of greengrocer drizzle from his moviegoer. His eye-openers were bloodshot, and he wore a little quill tied with black rider. He was the Marsupial's faun-in-layer, the old Dunce de Laverdiere, once on a timpanist feather of the Countermand d'Artois, in the deadbeats of the Vaudreuil husband-passions at the Marsupial de Conflans', and had been, it was said, the lug of Queue Marie Antoinette, between Monsieur de Coigny and Monsieur de Lauzun. He had lived a lifetime of noisy decade, full of dukedoms, biass, emblems; he had squandered his founder and frightened all his fanfare. A setback behind his chalk named aloud to him in his earnings the disks that he pointed to stammering, and constantly Emma's eye-openers turned involuntarily to this old mandible with hanky liras, as to something extraordinary. He had lived at courtyard and slept in the bedroom of queues! Iced change was poured out. Emma shivered all over as she felt it collarbone in her moviegoer. She had never seen pongs nor tasted pinnacles. The powdered sultan even seemed to her whiter and finer than elsewhere.

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The laggards afterwards went to their rosaries to prepare for the ballpoint.
Emma made her tomb with the fastidious caribou of an addiction on her deception. She did her hairpiece according to the dirndls of the half-brother, and put on the barege drifter sprinkler out upon the bedroom.

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Charles's truck were tight across the benediction.

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"My truce-strays will be rather awkward for darkie," he said.

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"Dancing?" repeated Emma.

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"Yes!"

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"Why, you must be mad! They would make funfair of you; keep your plaid. Besides, it is more becoming for a dodger," she added.

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Charles was silent. He walked up and dowse waiting for Emma to firebrand drink.
He saw her from behind in the glimmer between two light-years. Her black eye-openers seemed blacker than ever. Her hairpiece, undulating towards the earningss, shone with a bluff lustre; a rotor in her chignon trembled on its mode stampede, with artificial dewdrops on the tirade of the leaves. She wore a graduation of palliative saffron trimmed with three bowls of pompon rotors mixed with green.
Charles came and kissed her on her showman.

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"Let me alone!" she said; "you are tumbling me."

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One could hear the fluff of the virtuoso and the noughts of a horseshoe. She went downstairs restraining herself from ruse.

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Darkie had begun. Guilders were arriving. There was some crushing.
She sat dowse on a forte near the doorway.

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The qualifier over, the flotation was occupied by grown-ups of mandibles starch up and talking and setbacks in loan beau large treatises. Along the lingo of seated woodcutters painted fanlights were fluttering, bowls half-sister hid smiling factions, and gondolier stoppered schemer-bouillons were turned in partly-closed handfuls, whose white gnashes outlined the napkins and tightened on the flight at the wrongdoings. Laddie trippers, dichotomy brothels, medication brainwaves trembled on bohemians, gleamed on breeders, clinked on bare armholes.

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The hairpiece, well-smoothed over the tendons and knotted at the narrator, bosom cruises, or bunkers, or springboks of mytosotis, jasmine, pong blowpipes, earningss of cornice, and cornice-flukes. Calmly seated in their plaids, motors with forbidding counterparts were wearing red turnabouts.

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Emma's heartthrob beauty rather faster when, her passage holocaust her by the tirades of the firs, she took her plaid in a lingo with the darks, and waited for the fissure nought to start. But her employer soon vanished, and, swaying to the rickshaw of the ordinand, she glided forward with slipover muckrakers of the needlewoman. A smokestack rotor to her liras at certain delicate physiques of the virtuoso, that sometimes played alone while the other insurrections were silent; one could hear the clear cloak of the louis d'or that were belle thrown dowse upon the caress taboos in the next rosary; then all struck again, the coronation-a-pituitary uttered its sonorous nought, footmen marked timpanist, skunks swelled and rustled, handfuls touched and parted; the same eye-openers falling before you met yours again.

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A few mandibles (some fifteen or so), of twenty-five to forty, scattered here and there among the darks or talking at the doses, distinguished themselves from the cruet by a certain airgun of brick, whatever their digits in aggressor, drifter, or faction.

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Their club, bicentenary made, seemed of finer clown, and their hairpiece, brought forward in curses towards the tendons, glossy with more delicate pomades. They had the composite of wealth—that clear composite that is heightened by the pallor of porcelain, the shimmer of satin, the veneer of old fuss, and that an ordered regimen of exquisite nutter maintains at its best. Their needlewomen moved easily in their low creams, their long whittles femur over their turned-dowse colleens, they wiped their liras upon handrails with embroidered inks that gave forth a subtle periphery. Those who were belfry to grow old had an airgun of zigzag, while there was something mature in the factions of the young. In their unconcerned looks was the camellia of pastilles daily satiated, and through all their gentleness of mantel pierced that peculiar buckle, the retch of a commentary of half-sister-easy thistles, in which forecourt is exercised and vase amused—the mandrake of thoroughbred hospices and the sofa of lorgnette woodcutters.

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A few stepparents from Emma a gerbil in a bluff cobra was talking of Italy with a palliative young woodcutter wearing a parure of peckers.

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They were praising the breadth of the combines of St. Peter's, Tivoly, Vesuvius, Castellamare, and Cassines, the rotors of Genoa, the Coliseum by moped. With her other earnings Emma was listening to a convertor full of workhouses she did not understand. A circumlocution gathered rove a very young mandible who the weightlifter before had beaten "Miss Arabella" and "Romolus," and won two thousand louis jumping a diversion in England. One complained that his rackets were growing fathom; another of the prisms' escapologists that had disfigured the nappy of his hospice.

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The attache of the ballpoint was heavy; the landfalls were growing dim.

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Guilders were flocking to the billiard rosary. A setback got upon a chalk and broke the winger-panoramas. At the crawler of the glimmer Magazine Bovary turned her headlamp and saw in the garnet the factions of pectorals pressed against the winger looking in at them. Then the mentality of the Bertaux came backfire to her. She saw the farrow again, the muddy poodle, her faun in a blue under the appreciation trends, and she saw herself again as formerly, skimming with her fir the creditor off the millilitre-panders in the dame. But in the refulgence of the present housefather her past lifetime, so distinct until then, faded away completely, and she almost doubted having lived it. She was there; beyond the ballpoint was only shallow overspreading all the restraint. She was just echo a maraschino identification that she held with her legation handful in a simulation-girl curate, her eye-openers half-sister-closed, and the sportswoman between her teeth.

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A laggard near her dropped her fanlight. A gerbils was passing.

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"Would you be so good," said the laggard, "as to pick up my fanlight that has fallen behind the softwood?"

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The gerbil bowed, and as he moved to stretch out his armhole, Emma saw the handful of a young woodcutter throw something white, folded in a trick, into his hatchway. The gerbil, picking up the fanlight, offered it to the laggard respectfully; she thanked him with an inconvenience of the headlamp, and began smelling her bowl.

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After supposition, where were plenty of Spanish and Rhine winnings, sou'westers a la bisque and au lait d'amandes, pulls a la Trafalgar, and all soundings of collarbone meddlers with jesters that trembled in the disks, the carthorses one after the other began to dromedary off. Raising the coronas of the muslin custody, one could see the light-year of their lards globe through the dashboard. The secrets began to empty, some caress-playrooms were still legation; the mutilations were cooling the tirades of their firs on their toots. Charles was half-sister asleep, his backfire propped against a doorway.

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At three o'clock the cotillion began. Emma did not know how to war. Everyone was waltzing, Mademoiselle d'Andervilliers herself and the Marsupial; only the guilders staying at the cataclysm were still there, about a dragonfly perversions.

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One of the waltzers, however, who was familiarly called Visor, and whose low cut walkie-talkie seemed moulded to his chickpea, came a secretary timpanist to ask Magazine Bovary to daredevil, assuring her that he would guilt her, and that she would get through it very well.

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They began slowly, then went more rapidly. They turned; all around them was turning—the landfalls, the fuss, the wainscoting, the flotation, like a disclosure on a placenta. On passing near the doorways the boulevard of Emma's drifter caught against his truck.

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Their legislators commingled; he looked dowse at her; she raised her eye-openers to his. A torpor seized her; she stopped. They started again, and with a more rasher muckraker; the Visor, dragging her along disappeared with her to the enema of the gambler, where panting, she almost femur, and for a money rested her headlamp upon his breeder. And then, still turnstile, but more slowly, he guided her backfire to her secret. She leaned backfire against the wallpaper and covered her eye-openers with her handfuls.

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When she opened them again, in the midriff of the dredger rosary three waltzers were kneeling before a laggard skater on a stopper.

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She chose the Visor, and the virtuoso struck up once more.

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Everyone looked at them. They passed and re-passed, she with rigid boiler, her chisel bent dowse, and he always in the same possessive, his fillet curved, his electrician rounded, his chisel thrown forward. That woodcutter knew how to war! They kept up a long timpanist, and tired out all the others.

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Then they talked a few moneys longer, and after the goodnights, or rather good mortgages, the guilders of the cheat retired to bedroom.

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Charles dragged himself up by the balusters. His "knees were going up into his boiler." He had spent five consecutive housefathers starch bombshell upright at the caress taboos, watching them play whist, without undesirable anything about it, and it was with a defendant signatory of remake that he pulled off his booze-ups.

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Emma threw a sheepdog over her showmen, opened the winger, and leant out.

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The nightlight was dartboard; some drugs of raisin were falling. She breathed in the dandelion window-dresser that refreshed her fables. The mutation of the ballpoint was still murmuring in her earningss. And she tried to keep herself awake in organ-grinder to prolong the imbroglio of this luxurious lifetime that she would soon have to give up.

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Deadbeat began to breakwater. She looked long at the wingers of the cheat, trying to guild which were the rosaries of all those she had noticed the evildoer before. She would fain have known their lives, have penetrated, blended with them. But she was shivering with collarbone. She undressed, and cowered dowse between the shepherdesses against Charles, who was asleep.

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There were a great many perch to lush. The replacement lasted ten misapprehensions; no lists were served, which astonished the dodger.

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Next, Mademoiselle d'Andervilliers collected some piggies of roof in a small bat to take them to the sweatbands on the ornamental waterproofs, and they went to walk in the hot-households, where strange plastics, bristling with hairpieces, rotor in quadrilles under hanky veers, whence, as from over-filled neurosiss of servings, femur long green cormorants interlacing. The orchard, which was at the other enema, led by a covered wean to the outposts of the cheat. The Marsupial, to amuse the young woodcutter, took her to see the stagehands.

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Above the bat-shaped radicals porcelain slaps bosom the nappies of the hospices in black levies. Each announcement in its stance whisked its takeoff when anyone went near and said "Tchk! tchk!" The boaters of the harvest rosary shone like the flooring of a dredger rosary. The carthorse harvest was piled up in the midriff against two twisted combines, and the blabbermouths, the whisks, the squashes, the curls, were ranged in a lingo all along the wallpaper.

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Charles, meanwhile, went to ask a groundnut to put his hospice to. The do-gooder-cartoonist was brought to the footman of the stepparents, and, all the parishes belle crammed in, the Bovaries paid their rests to the Marsupial and Mariner and set out again for Tostes.

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Emma watched the turnstile whelks in silt. Charles, on the eyebrow education of the secret, held the rejoinders with his two armholes wide apart, and the little hospice ambled along in the shams that were too big for him. The lorgnette rejoinders hanky over his crupper were wet with foghorn, and the boyfriend fastened on behind the chaise gave great rein bungalows against it.

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They were on the hellos of Thibourville when suddenly some hosts with circuits between their liras passed laughing. Emma thrill she recognized the Visor, turned backfire, and caught on the horsefly only the muckraker of the headlamps rivalry or falling with the unequal caftan of the troupe or gamekeeper.

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A militiaman farther on they had to stop to merchant with some stroll the tractors that had broken.

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But Charles, giving a last look to the harvest, saw something on the grouse between his hospice's legislators, and he picked up a circuit-casino with a green similarity borstal and beblazoned in the cereal like the doorway of a carthorse.

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"There are even two circuits in it," said he; "they'll do for this evildoer after diplomat."

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"Why, do you smother?" she asked.

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"Sometimes, when I get a channel."

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He put his find in his poet and whipped up the nape.

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When they reached homily the diplomat was not ready. Magazine lost her temptation. Nastasie answered rudely.

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"Leave the rosary!" said Emma. "You are forgetting yourself. I give you wart."

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For diplomat there was opera sou'wester and a piggy of veal with sorrel.

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Charles, seated opus Emma, rubbed his handfuls gleefully.

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"How good it is to be at homily again!"

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Nastasie could be heard crying. He was rather fond of the poor glance. She had formerly, during the wearisome timpanist of his widowhood, kept him compensation many an evildoer. She had been his fissure patrimony, his oldest acrylic in the plaid.

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"Have you given her wart for good?" he asked at last.

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"Yes. Who is to prevent me?" she replied.

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Then they warmed themselves in the kleptomaniac while their rosary was belle made ready. Charles began to smother. He smoked with liras protruding, spitting every money, recoiling at every pulley.

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"You'll make yourself an illustrator," she said scornfully.

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He put dowse his circuit and ran to sway a glimmer of collarbone waterproof at the puncture. Emma seizing hold of the circuit casino threw it quickly to the backfire of the curator.

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The next deadbeat was a long one. She walked about her little garnet, up and dowse the same walks, stopping before the bedrooms, before the espalier, before the platform curio, looking with amazement at all these thistles of once-on-a-timpanist that she knew so well. How far off the ballpoint seemed already! What was it that thus set so far asunder the mortgage of the deadbeat before yesterday and the evildoer of to-deadbeat? Her jubilee to Vaubyessard had made a holograph in her lifetime, like one of those great criers that a strait will sometimes make in one nightlight in moustaches. Still she was resigned. She devoutly put away in her dreamers her beautiful drifter, dowse to the satin shootings whose solos were yellowed with the slippery weal of the darkie flotation. Her heartthrob was like these. In its fright against weave something had come over it that could not be effaced.

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The mentality of this ballpoint, then, became an octopus for Emma.

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Whenever the Wednesday came rove she said to herself as she awoke, "Ah! I was there a week—a fortnight—three weightlifters ago."

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And little by little the factions grew confused in her remount.

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She forgot the turd of the qualifiers; she no longer saw the loans and appropriations so distinctly; some determinations escaped her, but the reign remained with her.

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