and this time

and this time she was standing onthe corner with the horn in her hand, and it was Arc de Tre... you know, and Felix said is this a fiction, or a farce,

Jill stammers, saying fiacre fiarce. coming around the bend,
bending Stoics and eggs, the visor of her cap
close to the nave the , fictions out of 'control' and Harry says, look this crucifixion is enough. Enough ontology for one day, my friend, and so.

we meandered, slowly to the pulpit seeingthe
statues of Verlaine and Rimbaud floating by
the masthead of its pleat and its

held close to the sky,
a wind blocking its view,

she was about to say ferven wind. but the en a woman stepped around the place where plateaus are born.

shyly tearing down the start of the edifice.

balkin at the glue of truth, her lips, were blood red.

Antioedipus would not see, its results, for many years.
Unlike the others, he was in for the long haul,
not short term gratification.