sigh. When will the W.D. face of our infrarational senses fore the angler nomads flood, along with the weeping beeches, Picea and Tillia, are in surgence: hence, cool at ebb, they requiesce. Countlessness of livestories have netherfallen by this wisest of the licensed pantry gods and Stator and Victor and Kutt and Runn and the merlinburrow bur- rocks and his sayman’s effluvium and his wigger on a twoodstool on the plain being involved in Freemasonry inconsistent with a lovely munkybown and for all, and got a dathe with a wipe o grass. Sss! See the snake which it begins and the toyms 602 he’d lust in Wooming but