You sign out "Joey," and say Thursday. Frail Pink like those bars thet Wordsworth noted thence Stretch 'cross fatigued blue skies as for good sense I tap to Russian strains; and we drive. Pale Heavns wear grey twilight, greens in that detail Dark, shaggy trees with vast lawns, fields in dense Green, row on row forever, and what hence Twill be like in the car with YOU t'avail? I wonder, itching for the chance, in poor 'Scuse for how slow you're being. O me! how you Write "I don't do this often--" swears as twere That caution's in the air, though you kiss to Effect my hand these days. Firewerks 'non stir, Ah yes, they do. And you're a dream come true.