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From within the convoluted mass, under the thatched dome and behind the aqueous lights; across untraceable connections, through routes bridged and those bridged out; madly scavenging backyards— secret lattice stairs leading to three stage subterranean cellars; retracing swale worn steps through made-up rooms, and higher still, to the cobweb dormer attic, grabbing. Thumping. Tossing. Disgorging the till and tailings until the exasperation mounts like the minds bulk, to locate a single word— not the perfect word, but the only word, which, tongue bowed and harped, will cavort delightedly with its neighbors.
0
Jan 7, 2011
Jan 7, 2011 at 5:55 PM UTC
the Word
From within the convoluted mass, under the thatched dome and behind the aqueous lights; across untraceable connections, through routes bridged and those bridged out; madly scavenging backyards— secret lattice stairs leading to three stage subterranean cellars; retracing swale worn steps through made-up rooms, and higher still, to the cobweb dormer attic, grabbing. Thumping. Tossing. Disgorging the till and tailings until the exasperation mounts like the minds bulk, to locate a single word— not the perfect word, but the only word, which, tongue bowed and harped, will cavort delightedly with its neighbors.
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perig3e
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American
Jan 7, 2011
Jan 7, 2011 at 5:55 PM UTC
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