VIII

DUDE! The frogs have started their own narrative. And it means a spring toast of all terrestrial marshmallows. Love will grow. The morass of winter rests upon the sludgy davenport of definite insult when you can see that all is not exactly lost (spring arrives!), so far as can be said. Some things are so true, story wise....

...and that is why I talk so seriously, said Fu Manchu, newly returned to natural darksome hair colour. His life is great and sparked with tunes of world domination, doffing cruelness only in the reeds of river wealth. And do we read into the magic of his compulsion? Sure! Watch just now, the landing of the living pod from that faraway but no less important:

16Greezl'po with reliant onset, you who would dream more if you were only one word. But you as reader are many words, almost most of them. So you attach to meaning with a glee and glom. Funny foreign fellow. You'll take what you need, no worry. Stars feel like a political throb when they go burst with nova cue at just the right. How is language changing all the time when you only want to read?

John Keats the bloody fool and English tool took too much tubercular choice from the planet of woe. His Fannie Brawne was some nonsense bequeathed by the god of industrious ritual. He'd marry Emily Dickinson someday, too, and glowingly ruin the outreach plan. And the others who are onto the throne of reading on will stammer greatly.

So Fu Manchu realizes the novel of his spent. The world won't be cowed into pastures of trick me again. Not exactly. The world is dark alas but not the tunes inherent. Fu Manchu, a doctor, needs to see. Keats lands in a huff. Keats had a plan. Tom was a-cold. George started the idea of American soil excuse. Coleridge, yes, as negative as capability could be, also sought that mud. The mud was worth a kingdom, and Fu Manchu had not yet the report. Well! Insist on more story!!!