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.
It begins with a scanning of light, a settlement of words. The lightly fracture of Bird sound begins in the office of seeing. Not sentiment but sense, as cool as Green in the Early days. Pasture resists nonpasture, no one Refers to none. All remains including nothing. Morning Is belief and there simply there. Tides go freshly to the point.
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