I have a tale to tell. We return comprehensibly to the method of learnery then in that place. It’s like how wines taste differently in different countries. You know. It was marked, the city was funded on merchantry. Sailing, trading, it went around the pheasanted world. They had an empire, a kingdom, a clump of tents.
Lastly, the Mädchen hüpfed oup the gangweg. Itäs a conventional cognate, ha leap auf troof.
The city awoke in the morning and batted at night. All the people loved peacocks and pheasants and chacha. Eww, I wish I knew. Whish he wept. Wishing in the tea, would zou like. The music made it most of hall. I meant it as a cognato. This is how I meant it. Parolha. Sit down in your cell and cry for Rusty. I may hear you. It’s not a worry. It will be fine. I have these nice feelings you see, for you. I listen to what your tale means to ye.
I was meant for you.
You were meant for me, is what he said.
Yellow petals flipped slowly over, down through the night, along the lane. Higher, leaves fluttered. Nice summer smells slipped along as they went in the carriage. It is a trip. The sweetness of a brook flew to their right, through trees in the moon. It was a gentle lane. It’s this fine tunnel, flurrying away in the evening. We can talk. That’s the thing. You can slip right by the thing. You need to see when you leave.
Now the world hereabouts, it stands to reason a little filately, putt with caliphers and a fezant riding past the bike you kin (conkle wheeze the children volaring beckon firth, wound about like a language, fango, ranging, clang, whanging, ouef-ah, barca hey ind ho, ducks and ellerdown rolla) which winderingly lassie cadute the three candescent stones for finding the long ark home (breve) (cugino,: mi fa pensar, si se c’è una parola esistente ch’è pìu caricata; come una junk swaiglando, chi sono quests cugine, se permette l’indiscrezione, mi spiace ma dai, chi sono cugini?) fur whish fur to say ya kanna choose on a stir abouf cause yare dunna need em hare, tank to pay santy on the dashboard if the ship’s lards had one a them shining scintillionists fare peepin back at the stars auf, and real saints there. There’s way. You will find it. There calls a serpent, there calls a sea, lurking at angry crashing rocks casting foaming furling angry balls, in cracking cadent welkin.
We went sailing, luffing auf the segls hand ginging. Veering lichen stellarken whide whushh, a first stop, three stones, west to Bergamo. Harlequin smiles, commedia dell’arte miles, Colleani piles, che palle! The best thing, darling, that could have happened was this trip. I felt it and you see? sometimes I’m not always wrong. Then there was the best thing that could have happened. Wind called our way and swished us away east shifting like mongeese through our fence of cousins. We ate oranges.
Waft we heard in the crotchetied wibbings high. Listen to the wavelets.
Night rolled in from the schrödingered scales of the gulf. Misty Ache.
These are the sound of it. You hear a cradle waging, barkrolling.
I recall a triplet of singers, hit record. Warn’t they dulcy, gay, our there in night? Mond or luna, sumware, anyway not the world, we were held swaying in a stork’s beak in fougdrizzle, naiv and sentimental, linky derriere chi, waifs and pertycicles, breathing cygnicities, rootbeer fizzicities, electomagnetochippen intimating like the spark of a lucecasa on wilderpunkten pampasklippen, lonely, desolate, yet guiding direction the chippen voorwards end uffa, compass – smash left twirgle destral and klarp ! then thin size journalying far wares tradenrouten inclusing reflection, out there in tomorrow’s morning fog, zumming the thing, the orbserver med iterative leuchtenquellen.
Keep the three things in mind studying reflection, that’s sailing. Seeking colors in the night on undulating sea, that’s we. Cause it’s always weaving, lift to the right next in yurt direction. These instruments keep yakking away. Flat lands give way slewly to spicy lifty. It’s still night yet we can tell. We have a tale to tell. S’marvelous. Hic trinkly champayne. Keptin, yare trinkin’!
It’s the dialing hectic. Things are just crazy these days. Take my fön. It’s clearing the nightie. Kin ye feel it? Left and right, and forwaerts and the delight that newn kin find us here. You can’t.
And they certainly dunna knew us where we’re headin’. Weighing on splicing prow in the nackt. Hand me an arancia. I’m eating from my destination. Just, we’re going to break past the circle. Fwush, swailng yonder wheey.
Wending beyond the knewn wereld, we bekämm immature, yes, I guess, naïve. You’re one side er t’ether, yet they kinna find ye.
We’re teaching colors in the night. Threw this dart at this presize target and missit.
Zuhuus hollered, swinging high. The stars shine the way.