Professor Igor Xerxes paced restlessly as he studied the document. It was found amidst the satchel of papers he received from a mysterious woman who then disappeared into the human turbine of The Casbah. Piquancy of prose topped the roll call of the vaunted papers. ’A prose poem, joy of the gods!’, muttered the professor. Prose of gilded favour, with prompt verbs and oozing adjectives. An impression of intaglio in every noun. Adverbs following verbs in stately preset such as when the canny clicker provides the best tv viewing. Boldly on he read, an unfaded prose poem from when literature still sent shivers. Professor Xerxes went on and on, and even on, tracing the vantage of excellence in the critical mass. Suddenly, with a warlike cry, Professor X threw aside the precious document, ran to his desk and wrote the most powerful footnote of his esteemed career. Culminations bloom in the offing, as oft they do, when scintillant use of punctuation wins the day.
From the thing itself, beyond seasoned aptness. Life is like living but blurred by you were listening. Aspect ratio telemetry in myriad languages smooth as rocks approaches time to look. Words piece together things or things find words. Endlessness is a choice, written big in words as shiny as geese. Words simply take the time in radiation and radical point. Stein wrote the heft of nothing special, start there or whatever. You can slowly adjust the franchise, commodity's inner workings. Subglacial quips, subliminal washouts, frantic azure in the breeze of frosty Friday: these special sparking hallways slyly enjoin. Maybe you read too much into reading too much. Further on is where you’ll stay.
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