I spit until that stew stuck, hammed, lodged in mine is gone
10/28/21 S14256 07:06:20
Yet, and even, and beyond having had to undergo, now namely like ‘undergone,’ such long tomes, rote records of writ, wit spoken to be transcribed, written, rotely monk’d over for a decade, she still could never interpret the frets on the board. She couldn’t, wouldn’t read that butter bit. Never. The easy chodes, nodes of knowing flowed by ink to the thinking pink fink. That anti-spoke spoke, having been loudly read aloud already, t’was then, again, anti-requisite to the penned feather-type osmosis she was attempting at present. “Thusly,” spoke she, “Having never been said, having never appeared to the air, this(ly) beespeeches the intent of my goal. For I consume not that which has been digested before, at present, at now. Look I not not, at least partly, the part of the fowl? Must I repeat? Must I repeat? That which has graced that which stands between you and I, the empty, the in between, must never, hereafter, grace those ears, mind, or soul you call mine. It is decreed.” Aye, she was the swine. That one of refusal to see, to read, take creed of the bleeded inkling who had been spoken ever, she, she would never.