…OUR WEIGHT GROWN SERE AND DREARY…

[response to Dear _____,]

Never aficionary, but covertly becustomed to the life epistocratic they are. Sleuthish, perpetually sniffing out paths of inkblood through abandoned Rolodex cavities and forsaken desk drawers. I hang back, but observe much.

Breath of mine has fogged aurorally their magnificentifying glasses and pressed windows of finger tipholes into the fortresses betwixt their eyes, evermore and anon. Looking on with mouth agape as they shuffle the evidence and chuckle with a knowing vulgar and chew their mustaches and always, but always, advise sewage.

Gorlov’em! Ears anew won, hot on the trail of another letterous offender:

Hem. Peers plain to be distortion, straight and forward. Of a stinkly sek-shell nature, and valvular in the ex-spleen. Some wordsongs in the early. (Use of the first plurality; a lobberill be needed to make that sing.) Ference to some foreign locals. Was sicksome geezer, righton. Peers to have troublously countered this horsepack amok, but couldn’t counter’em righton a tall a tall; couldn’t even counter how many were there. Shouldn’ta been packing horses in the placefirst. Out of stable, out of time, out of mind, mimem alluz zed, half hearse she was so shotta know. Har-roum! Back to disseer epistocrantz, a real minimal element. Ladderly seems to have been an upbreak, parts askeweredly, bedazed and berusting. Clarishly, he wants some up and look on the low and down, a bitto spanky-shank without any crink for crank, some jamjoy but no alloy. Lisp my reads: pastiche? We’ll bring this swipe-ass down.

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