Thursday, August 14, 2008

Little Shrine Or Chapel

Drizzly November in my soul. Most enchanting bit of romantic landscape in all. Judicially buttered. How cheerfully we consign ourselves to perdition!

I love to sail forbidden seas. Perceive a horror and still be social with it. I came to a smoky proceeding. Death is the only glazier.

A series of systematic visits. Weltering there. I never liked to sleep two in a bed. Dumplings in a most dire manner.

Potion of gin and molasses, which he swore was a sovereign cure. The shavings of another grin. Cherishing unwarrantable prejudices. Now flying into a passion.

Of things not properly belonging. A bit of glass stuck against the wall. A mildewed skull. A very appropriate little shrine or chapel.

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