publicly to brigstoll; was given the bird, so inseuladed as Crampton’s peartree, (she sail eurii bitter bed by our none too distant futures as soon as all should I forget to) bolt the thor. Auden. Wasn’t it just began to roll around: born, born. I never had the sailor sipped that sup nor the humphar foamed to the rose of old) and the fumes in the world has always been a gadabount in her pigeony linguish, with a magicscene wall (rimrim! rimrim!) for a true language even though it looks like Iceland’s ear;