Johnny Locket caught another pink-feathered, salmon-striped pickpocketeer. Large load: bat-powder barrels and overturned onion dollaps. Hey, I was looking for those, you filthy little thief. Starstrikingly stippled salty sea ships filled with dodder fodder. A sad little shantytown saloon. Beware: arid air. A forgotten instruction pamphlet on how to debarnacalize, evidently so. Putrid boredom lingering like little bunker bristles. The leftovers of last week’s conversation are no less dwindling than the thought of it. An empty bookcase dreading the thought of–never mind. Forty-four degrees, unreliable precipitatories. Vestibules closing in on forty-four furlongs. An early morning’s breakfast. Great Britain’s impending participle problem–another telephone box, without a telephone. He asks to borrow some change; but dammit, that’s your money. An aggravating whistle, like a toothache.
State-funded orange juice distribution, estimated delivery: you are just four stops away. Cobbling with self-produced fruitfly leather. Blistering welts and pompous whittle wire. An ornamental oar: are you remembering what this means? The bust of a beautiful lass punched out of frozen rainwater. A familiarity amidst repetitiveness. A vessel of pure asininity: does it feel like looking into a mirror? Congratulations, you are a candidate for unconsensual rotation, please hold.
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