There Are Few Things As

Sought We The Scrivani Word-work Of Surthur Long-long In Ledger All Hope Forgotten Yet Fast-found For Friendship Fair The Book-bringer Hot Comes The Huntress Fela, Flushed With Finding Breathless Her Breast Her High Blood Rising To Ripen The Red-cheek Rouge-bloom Of Beauty.

She Reached Up And Lay Her Hand On My Cheek. "you Have The Sweetest Face," She Said, Looking At Me Dreamily. "it's Like The Perfect Kitchen." I Fought Not To Smile. This Was The Delirium. She'd Fade In And Out Of It Before The Profound Exhaustion Dragged Her Down Into Unconsciousness. If You See Someone Spouting Nonsense To Themselves In An Alleyway In Tarbean, Odds Are They're Not Actually Crazy, Just A Sweet-eater Deranged By Too Much Denner. "a Kitchen?" "yes," She Said. "everything Matches And The Sugar Bowl Is Right Where It Should Be.

Old Cob Tucked Away His Bowl Of Stew With The Predatory Efficency Of A Lifetime Bachelor.

Just Pity Him, My Boy. Tomorrow We'll Be On Our Way, But He'll Have To Keep His Own Disagreeable Company Until The Day He Dies.

I'm A Firm Supporter Of The Word Polyamory. But That One Is Close To My Heart.