fig.245) Barely thirds, figures behind the secret of all things at once (x2) "Goodbye," says the wet man. "This womb is mighty big. It's been a singular sack indeed." These are not the times of us so much as the place where the clockwork fails. The house is a'clatter in shifting gears and torn fabric. All of the tools of modernism have finally blinked and so goes the glass. Gender is a lean and wary host, it's a comfortable friend, and the scary story on this broken bus out of town. It's a biologic frame with long social tendrils that delicately obscure the face of the hosted. We are blind, the sun has made us up. We are guilt with chance and dumb fingers too. The bath of my moment in the day of my job. It's around the corner, Hi-Ho! O' Ho, the superlative mange. Trust is any blanket that puts out all the flame. Blue house with an orange dot behind the shrubs, it's a calculated risk. There's an Arthur C. Clarke novel in my back