Lawks-a-sparkly! Cor, 'ts a conglegation of the right choice. How beautiful on the mountain, the 425 feet of them that reach, the goodspell of fine weather, here's a piece! Turn it round with your fingers. In the sunshine, tetraheed the flashback and on too.Where's it all come from? Coarse, its identifiable constituents, metamorphic logoids and ingenious tricks, vain hopes and grey hairs, all lying in Sandy's matrix, rich in detrital feltspasms, suggest derivation from the moaning pally old north. Whoosat moaning northerner? Henry's old pal Effo, groaningly hungover the edge of the whirled. Or is Phiona the moaner, has Henry hardened to her ur, ur, urshegoes, labouring lust not lost in another room out of earshot, shot his bolt in here, Leighton's room say, left unbolted was it unlocked his libido at last. Complexity of moaners, get the angle and see. An island, no, Man is one. Here's to your middle leg, Henry! You've made Phiona happy! How happy that she is, a happy ending. Whoops! You must be Joe King, pleased to meet you, but it's hello and goodbye, Joe, 'cos we've just de-mythologised endings! Yep, and happy wholeness too! Sorry, the game goes on after all, all is provisional only, allowing of the unforeseen need to expand, was it, yes and follow the rich or baring seem vain... button it up for now, Buzz, later perhaps, who can say, in the meantime we hopefully hope hopefully, changing usages allowable too, hoffentlich. Now all this can be interpreted, you'll be very pleased to hear! These dropoutological characters' capers could suggest fast-stream transport, (actually Effo kept it down to fifty, kept Henry down too tilly tripped off wivver woody wanderlust) transport I say along several major channels southwards: the A1(M), A1, M18, M1 as far as junction 16 then more winding westerly A43. But for your real faststreaming stuff it's Buzzing along the M4 U like, tranzipping Cynfully, (thou shallt not steal, but they don't intend to keep) relatively without fuss, still's not uncommon to find drifted plant debris, sometimes in pockets. (Ashenbaccy.) Hoo! It must be getting late. Stark outside. Nos tywyll. BLANG! Again? Why certainly, BLANG! BLANG! How many more? Well, let's say it's about ten o'clock, nice that, twelve hours since BLANG! the last time we heard the BLANG! (All right!) college clock, ten o' clock then, in the dark night of all these souls. November the first, is it? No no, Toby's for instance. How's he getting on? Pray tello Oh he's written a bitten fingers to no truck by enlightening, snuffled a blowdis niobe all tears, wandered out for a drink, bitter, backed in and read a bit red too. A bit too trivial for a D. N. of the S? Bear in mind perhaps that it isn't really all that much of a soul he's got there anyway, at least he isn't right out there in the dark, dark, the interstellar spaceSPLAT like the poor old Adversary the, just as he thought he'd made it that particular game was over after all, swatted it all up too poor chap, Milton, King James version of the, oh we do sympathise, all was language after all too, and where do you go when you've been demythologised? Oh, he's in no ending of trouble. Or when you're deadly drunk like Effo, or drunk and depressed too, like Berkley? Stepped out of a puddle of trousers hours ago, flopped on his bed and went out like a dark. Turn out the. But it's already out. Turn it out again, then, out, I say, out, out bloody poor player, fruts and strets upon the page, and then is read no more, oh you can never stop switching off, lower and lower or deeper and deeper, such dreams he's having knitting up the Rabble easier'n kerls and gollyglimpses: he'll be sorry all right in the mourning sunshine, nothing worse than another hangover and a pocketful of crumpled A4 covered with illegible scribbles is there, spraysoaked only the thin red only the odd word here and there and her proud form there making sense, nonsense really all of it. As for Percy, it'd be funny if, ha, if he was h-having, or, oh, 'avving a dark Knight too, wipes streaming ayes have it away there, Miss, Russian in where angels fear to grope. Night and silence. Who is here? No-one. Da iawn. I do not understand. Da, ya ne ponemayu. You? No. Who? No-one, yet... Nyet. Shto? Neekto. Oh, listen. Who is hearing? Ya sleeshyou. Shh! Throughout a long night, the sound of the brain is what I think. Do you? Ya doomayou. Doomed. Dodged, idiot! Please yourself, crumple it into your baccycrumbed pocket of drifted sandy memories of dunes, windswept grasses flaring flat at a sudden gust, gwynt- the real impeller, fella. For yes it's ground we grow a grain and another gain there, all the emotion debris the stream can carry, dropping out now as it slows down running out of stream here, gravel and shingle, sand and shit.