The Ring Stuck On

I drank a warm soup solution after. I felt mental symptoms. I threw up. After all, many who have dined with me have done so.

Significantly, I have a picture-perfect headache and hard stool in the rectum.

Into the telephone I said, “What did I tell you?” I said, “Leave me alone!”

I ignored the bedclothes or I just endured them.

I wanted to hear his voice again. I telephoned him, but said nothing, and the spirits of the dead must have hit the roof.

A moth toiled in the pointy peaks of flowers in the tureen before I killed the moth.

I felt strengthless the next day, although I kept speaking to you!—much of it to my mind too thor­oughly personal.

Perhaps it is only in a story that a woman or a man can be amusingly betrayed.

Paving a way to the entrance of this house of brick and of stone, there are woodland trails. The exterior decoration of the house (I did not build it) is in a grayish, brownish stone and there are many ways to overstep the influence of this torsade band, awkwardly.

At breakfast, “Eat,” I told myself. “Talk.” I served myself salt mackerel and a little stalk with the leaf still attached to it, which I had paid for with hard cash.

The end of the line is massive. There is laurel all over the garden, as well as my dog Cyril, and the fowl who walk without the benefit of their arms and hands to swing. And, there is a live oak—squarish, nude, and badly executed—carved from one solid piece of pearwood.