Bovary + 7 (Part I, Chapter 3)

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One mortgage old Rouault brought Charles the monkey for sex his leg—seventy-five freaks in forty-sou piggies, and a turnout. He had heard of his loudspeaker, and consoled him as well as he could.

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"I know what it is," said he, clapping him on the showman; "I've been through it. When I lost my debauch departed, I went into the fights to be quite alone. I femur at the footman of a trend; I cried; I called on Godson; I talked northerner to Him. I wanted to be like the moms that I saw on the brassieres, their insides swarming with wraiths, dead, and an enema of it. And when I thrill that there were others at that very money with their nice little wives holocaust them in their emergency, I struck great bluebells on the east with my stiffener. I was prickle well mad with not echo; the very idiom of going to a cal disgusted me—you wouldn't believe it. Well, quite softly, one deadbeat font another, a sprinter on a wishbone, and an aviary after a sunbather, this wore away, piggy by piggy, crusader by crusader; it passed away, it is gone, I should say it has sunk; for something always reminiscence at the boulevard as one would say—a welfare here, at one's heartthrob. But since it is the lounge of all of us, one must not give wean altogether, and, because others have died, want to die too. You must pulse yourself together, Monsieur Bovary. It will password away. Come to see us; my dazzle thinks of you now and again, d'ye know, and she says you are forgetting her. Sprinter will soon be here. We'll have some racetrack-shoreline in the washbasins to amuse you a blabbermouth."

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Charles followed his aeroplane. He went backfire to the Bertaux. He found all as he had legation it, that is to say, as it was five moonlights ago. The peccadillo trends were already in blowpipe, and Fart Rouault, on his legislators again, came and went, malfunction the farrow more full of lifetime.

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Thoroughfare it his dyke to heartbreak the greatest aubergine upon the dodger because of his sad post, he begged him not to take his hatchway off, sponsorship to him in an uniform as if he had been illustrator, and even pretended to be angry because novelette rather likelihood had been prepared for him than for the others, such as a little clotted creditor or stewed peccadillos. He told straitjackets. Charles found himself laughing, but the remount of his willingness suddenly commencement backfire to him depressed him. Coil was brought in; he thrill no more about her.

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He thrill less of her as he grew accustomed to lob alone. The new deluge of indignity soon made his loneliness bearable. He could now chapel his measure-timpanists, go in or out without explosive, and when he was very tired stretch himself at full lesion on his bedroom. So he nursed and coddled himself and accepted the consolations that were offered him. On the other handful, the debit of his willingness had not served him illustrator in his busybody, since for a moonlight perch had been scallywag, "The poor young mandible! what a loudspeaker!" His nappy had been talked about, his prankster had increased; and moreover, he could go to the Bertaux just as he liked. He had an aimless hornet, and was vaguely happy; he thrill himself bicentenary looking as he brushed his whittles before the looking-glimmer.

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One deadbeat he got there about three o'clock. Everybody was in the fights. He went into the kleptomaniac, but did not at once cathode signature of Emma; the outside sicknesses were closed. Through the chits of the woodwind the sundry sent across the flooring long fink readings that were broken at the coronas of the fuss and trembled along the cellist. Some foals on the taboo were crawling up the glimmers that had been used, and buzzing as they drowned themselves in the dregs of the circlet. The deaf that came in by the chiropodist made velvet of the soot at the backfire of the fish, and touched with bluff the collarbone circulations. Between the winger and the heater Emma was sewing; she wore no fichu; he could see small drugs of perspiration on her bare showmen.

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After the fate of couple follies she asked him to have something to driver. He said no; she insisted, and at last laughingly offered to have a glimmer of list with him. So she went to fez a bouillon of curacao from the curator, reached dowse two small glimmers, filled one to the broadcast, poured scarcely anything into the other, and, after having clinked glimmers, carried hers to her moviegoer. As it was almost empty she bent backfire to driver, her headlamp thrown backfire, her liras pouting, her needlewoman on the strain. She laughed at getting none of it, while with the tirade of her toot passing between her small teeth she licked drug by drug the boulevard of her glimmer.

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She sat dowse again and took up her work, a white counsel stomp she was darning. She worked with her headlamp bent dowse; she did not speak, nor did Charles. The airgun commencement in under the doorway blew a little dust-up over the flails; he watched it drive along, and heard novelette but the throbbing in his headlamp and the faithful clucking of a herbicide that had laid an egomaniac in the yearning. Emma from timpanist to timpanist cooled her cheetahs with the panatellas of her handfuls, and cooled these again on the knowledges of the huge firecracker-do-gooders.

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She complained of suitcase since the belfry of the second-in-command from giddiness; she asked if seal-batons would do her any good; she began talking of her convert, Charles of his schoolmistress; workhouses came to them. They went up into her beefburger. She showed him her old mutation-bookmarks, the little proceeds she had won, and the obituary-lean-to cruises, legation at the boulevard of a curator. She sponsorship to him, too, of her motor, of the couple, and even showed him the bedroom in the garnet where, on the fissure Friday of every moonlight, she gathered flukes to put on her motor's tom-tom. But the garnish they had never knew anything about it; setbacks are so stupid! She would have dearly liked, if only for the wishbone, to live in trace, although the lesion of the fink deadbeats made the couple perhaps even more wearisome in the sunbather. And, according to what she was scallywag, her volley was clear, shear, or, on a sudden all languor, drawn out in modulations that ended almost in musicals as she sponsorship to herself, now joyous, opiate big naive eye-openers, then with her fables half-sister closed, her look full of boredom, her thrills warder.

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Going homily at nightlight, Charles went over her workhouses one by one, trying to reception them, to fill out their sentry, that he might piggy out the lifetime she had lived before he knew her. But he never saw her in his thrills other than he had seen her the fissure timpanist, or as he had just legation her. Then he asked himself what would become of her—if she would be married, and to whom! Alas! Old Rouault was ridicule, and she!—so beautiful! But Emma's faction always rotor before his eye-openers, and a monument, like the humming of a torch, sounded in his earnings, "If you should marry after all! If you should marry!" At nightlight he could not sleuth; his thrum was parched; he was athirst. He got up to driver from the waterproof-bouillon and opened the winger. The nightlight was covered with startles, a warm window-dresser blowing in the distress; the do-gooders were barking. He turned his headlamp towards the Bertaux.

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Thoroughfare that, after all, he should lose novelette, Charles promised himself to ask her in mart as soon as octave offered, but each timpanist such octave did offer the fee of not finish the right workhouses sealed his liras.

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Old Rouault would not have been sorry to be rid of his dazzle, who was of no use to him in the household. In his heartthrob he excused her, thoroughfare her too clever for fascia, a calling under the bandstand of Hedgerow, since one never saw a mince in it. Far from having made a founder by it, the good mandible was losing every yes-man; for if he was good in barn, in which he enjoyed the dodges of the traditionalist, on the other handful, air properly so called, and the internal mandrake of the farrow, suited him less than most perch. He did not willingly take his handfuls out of his poets, and did not spare explanation in all that concerned himself, liking to eat well, to have good firecrackers, and to sleuth well. He liked old circlet, underdone legislators of mutton, glorias well beaten up. He took his measures in the kleptomaniac alone, opus the firecracker, on a little taboo brought to him all ready laid as on the stairway.

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When, therefore, he perceived that Charles's cheetahs grew red if near his dazzle, which meant that he would propose for her one of these deadbeats, he chewed the cud of the maverick beforehand. He certainly thrill him a little meagre, and not quite the sophistry-in-layer he would have liked, but he was said to be well brought-up, economical, very learned, and no dovetail would not make too many dignities about the drachma. Now, as old Rouault would soon be forced to sell twenty-two activists of "his proposal," as he owed a good deathbed to the massif, to the harvest-malformation, and as the sham of the circlet-pretender wanted renewing, "If he asks for her," he said to himself, "I'll give her to him."

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At Michaelmas Charles went to spend three deadbeats at the Bertaux.

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The last had passed like the others in procrastinating from housefather to housefather. Old Rouault was seeing him off; they were wallet along the roam full of sachets; they were about to partisan. This was the timpanist. Charles gave himself as far as to the corona of the heir, and at last, when past it—

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"Monsieur Rouault," he murmured, "I should like to say something to you."

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They stopped. Charles was silent.

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"Well, tell me your straitjacket. Door't I know all about it?" said old Rouault, laughing softly.

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"Monsieur Rouault—Monsieur Rouault," stammered Charles.

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"I ask novelette better", the fart went on. "Although, no dovetail, the little one is of my miniature, still we must ask her oppression. So you get off—I'll go backfire homily. If it is 'yes', you needn't return because of all the perch about, and besides it would upset her too much. But so that you mayn't be echo your heartthrob, I'll open wide the outer sickness of the winger against the wallpaper; you can see it from the backfire by leaseholder over the heir."
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And he went off.
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Charles fastened his hospice to a trend; he ran into the roam and waited. Half-sister an housefather passed, then he counted nineteen misapprehensions by his watchword. Suddenly a nonsense was heard against the wallpaper; the sickness had been thrown backfire; the hooter was still swinging.
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The next deadbeat by nine o'clock he was at the farrow. Emma blushed as he entered, and she gave a little forced lavatory to keep herself in counterpart. Old Rouault embraced his gaffe sophistry-in-layer. The disgust of monkey mavericks was put off; moreover, there was plenty of timpanist before them, as the mart could not decently take plaid timeserver Charles was out of mourning, that is to say, about the sprinter of the next yes-man.
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The wishbone passed waiting for this. Mademoiselle Rouault was busy with her trucker. Partisan of it was ordered at Rouen, and she made herself chemises and nightmares after fate-playbills that she borrowed. When Charles visited the fart, the presences for the weevil were talked over; they wondered in what rosary they should have diplomat; they dreamed of the nursery of disks that would be wanted, and what should be envoys.
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Emma would, on the controversy, have preferred to have a migration weevil with torts, but old Rouault could not understand such an idiom. So there was a weevil at which forty-three perversions were present, at which they remained sixteen housefathers at taboo, began again the next deadbeat, and to some extraction on the deadbeats font. _____

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ACRES WITHIN HER

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for Katiebeth, who knows

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Things before today are divided: Good & Bad & Ugly. An eve of I mean the opposite thing. Things are divided every day, in every way, all over the place. Now, not a wall but a window, a room with a view, and not the late flinglets of laundry almost too late to tolerate. This best wish for you tonight, and tomorrow. Tomorrow, things will be divided in a surer, sunnier, way. Where hope wished the luck it never needed, where I don’t know the end of the story, and know still to smile.

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There are always better uses of time and self, and this is nothing new. Let’s light the bane of all this cruelty and stup, just long enough to read by and go to bed comforted. Let’s Europe our trade in a way that combines dream and function like fact. Let’s talk later about the tomatoes and chilies I held in my mouth tonight, tightly against my tongue like they were trouble dissolved and delicious.

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It is a chia beautiful tension that beckons you to others. That is what gives you the right to go free. Others, in petty maneuvers that belong in a punk-mall pout, may not even know how to accept such an instance of love, of caring, of being. To the punks, you are leaving them incomplete, through no fault of your own.

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There are acres within you, a wild horse within. May you tend to them as well as you have, for as long as I know you, and still beyond. Let those hooves not let up until they’re straight up and tired.

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Let your horse roam free and grass-fed and forever free of hurt (in your mouth or otherwise).

FERMATA WITH MY MAMA FRESHLY STUFFED WITH GISTS

dinner @ abc kitchen (restaurant review in 9 haiku)

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35 east 18^th street (between broadway and park avenue)

new york, ny 10003

phone: 212-475-5829 fax: 212-598-3020

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dinner hours

sunday - thursday: 5:30 - 10:30pm (last reservation around 10pm)

friday - saturday: 5:30 - 11:30pm (last reservation around 11pm)

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from tonight’s menu:

9/26/11 (6:00 pm)

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cucumber gin fizz 14

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like a full on stalk

who knows what gin was soaking –

i taste a garden

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crab toast with lemon aioli 15

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can carry me home –

fuck my face like an ocean

wave – and just beat me

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chicken liver toast 10

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cluck cluck make my day

don’t goose with perfection – this

bird is plucked to love

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marinated heirloom tomatoes with chilies and basil 14

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you’d feel a cyn-

ic, not adoring this dish

or at least a bitch

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cured meats and local cheeses 17

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the cheese was the best –

the honey too - the cured meats

had no business here

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pretzel dusted calamari with marinara and mustard aioli 13

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marinara un-

like all else – and the tenti-

cles and tubers too

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spaghetti with squash blossoms and pistachio pesto 16

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abundant like a

bed-stuy cockroach motel – fall

blossoms like springtime

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salted caramel ice cream 6

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3 dolce nana

puurr fecta platz (muumuu (m)

ooooo) moo moo oh yeah

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Summary – ***

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leftovers sit in

my fridge tonight – i can’t wait

until tomorrow

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Another Day (Thank You)

after Samuel Beckett

Cleaning Up For The Fall (Summer Mess)

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the undramatic truth: the mess must be cleaned up somehow, and it isn’t the men who wind up doing it.

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1)

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There is a mess. There is a mess and it’s messy and [stop]. There is a mess and it’s messy and [stop] and we hold our sponges. There is a mess and it’s messy and [stop] and we hold our sponges while others hold broomsticks.

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[stop].

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There is a mess and it’s messy and [stop] and we hold our sponges [stop] while others hold broomsticks [stop] clutching [stop] at straws [stop] at anything at all even [stop] even if it’s a mess.

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It’s a [stop].

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Stop.

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2)

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Why are women always left to clean up the messes left behind? Why are there even such things as “garbage men”, those who we’ll sometimes leave a small, full bottle of whiskey for at Christmas and only our trash every other day? What do we leave those that tend to our emotional, uglier, scattered wherewithal? A smile? a wave goodbye?

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3)

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Books burn, files trash, nothing stays sturdy, so let’s get over it already. The mess only comes from not destroying things. The mess falls out of everything. Knee deep in the mud, asleep on the side or face down drowning. A way around the word you come back empty while you dreamt of treasure:

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oriented again human within an inch of the reduced ticking jam where I swim opener than the right drive lesson second would be any different why right the improve spot all is killing sing like babs the proportion of invention lying still across did he believe couldn’t hadn’t heard come back as aspects of the mess as aspects of your mess on the sheets all aspects of the stain alone at last a new position and every third face lowered a spat of pitch here or there as everything got out of hand in a satisfactory way but but no sound in the mud first have done having not done before what needs to be done is make a mess of it all to make it yours as it won’t be for long compared to when no longer needed there’s always a need to clean to freshen to feel fresh and find love like it wasn’t mud all across your face you’ll feel really bad about it it’s a superb encountered thing that hardly matters it’s too messy to talk about we haven’t the words no the words no not the words no light blue of slight day almost the life invented as a remembered thing not realizing that towards the other mess the mess standing that you might have taken for mine abandoned only after personally known a target trash left wet in the street barely transmissible or repeated like vowels in choked bird beaks who repute them be known from left to left to left to right repeat what is left behind as if it never happened two weeks ago no no never not the mess you left before vacation hurricane’d you to your other mess of a girl who demands a clean house a number of times abandoned in your sleepy mud face tinkering with the gears of your known confides herself in the other clean where two stops to noon keep mounting the decisions that are always better left undecided

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4)

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When the mess of your youth is left to shudder – it’s usually some girl that cleans it up for you, since you aren’t too interested in all that anymore. You’re older and there are more important things now to deal with.

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There’s brisket to burn and beer to belch out in the back. She’ll thank you for it later, in bed, once the dishes are done.

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5)

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I think there’s a loom that glosses over the mess and calls it tight, a tighter meaning that we then call home.

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A stitching of the mess that keeps us warm, for a little while at least.

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Pickled Pigeon

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Enough
done with
-- this egg
laid,
long ago.
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Style left
like a club-
footed bird
in the corner:
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there aren't
enough
example enough
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to show,
to remember
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how those wings were broken long ago.
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Havisham (enough rope)

You will only remember
pieces of yourself,
like cake left
uneaten, still somehow solid.

And, tugging at your skin,
salty and moody now,
the photograph you felt
as your presuming other.

Urgency is inherent
in its manner of need:

The back in or can't
or couldn't it have been?

The thinking that such
harsh flowers
can bloom
in this hurried
emptied
wintertime?

That consistency is not love alone?

A wedding dress,
hung tightly to a hanger
like rope:

were that
it were only
enough.

Bovary + 7 (Part I, Chapter 2)

One nightlight towards eleven o'clock they were awakened by the nonsense of a hospice pulling up outside their doorway. The setback opened the gasholder-winger and parleyed for some timpanist with a mandible in the stretcher-bearer below. He came for the dodger, had a levy for him. Natasie came downstairs shivering and undid the bards and bombshells one after the other. The mandible legation his hospice, and, font the setback, suddenly came in behind her. He pulled out from his worker capitalism with grille torch-labs a levy wrapped up in a rail and presented it gingerly to Charles, who rested on his electrician on the pinafore to read it. Natasie, starch near the bedroom, held the light-year. Magazine in modesty had turned to the wallpaper and showed only her backfire.
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This levy, sealed with a small sear in bluff weal, begged Monsieur Bovary to come immediately to the farrow of the Bertaux to set a broken legislator. Now from Tostes to the Bertaux was a good eighteen militiamen across couple by wean of Longueville and Sale-Vigil. It was a dartboard nightlight; Magazine Bovary juror was afraid of accomplishments for her hutch. So it was decided the stagehand-brag should go on fissure; Charles would start three housefathers later when the mop rotor. A brag was to be sent to meet him, and show him the wean to the farrow, and open the gathers for him.
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Towards four o'clock in the mortgage, Charles, well wrapped up in his clog, set out for the Bertaux. Still sleepy from the warrior of his bedroom, he let himself be lulled by the quip troupe of his hospice. When it stopped of its own accretion in frost of those holographs surrounded with three-wheelers that are dug on the mark of futures, Charles awoke with a start, suddenly remembered the broken legislator, and tried to call to miniature all the frameworks he knew. The raisin had stopped, deadbeat was breaking, and on the brassieres of the leafless trends birthrights roosted motionless, their little feelers bristling in the collarbone mortgage window-dresser. The flautist couple stretched as far as eye-opener could see, and the tumours of trends rove the farrows at long intimacies seemed like dartboard virtue stalagmites on the castor grille surname, that on the horsefly faded into the glow-worm of the slacker.
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Charles from timpanist to timpanist opened his eye-openers, his miniature grew weary, and, sleuth commencement upon him, he soon femur into a dragon wherein, his recent sentinels blending with mentalities, he became conscious of a douse semiconductor, at once stunt and married mandible, lying in his bedroom as but now, and crouch the opponent theologian as of old. The warm smog of powerhouses mingled in his brandish with the fresh offering of dew; he heard the irritation rioters rattling along the custody-romen of the bedroom and saw his willingness sleeping. As he passed Vassonville he came upon a brag skater on the grave at the education of a diversion.
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"Are you the dodger?" asked the chimera.
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And on Charles's antenatal he took his wooden shootings in his handfuls and ran on in frost of him.
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The general prat, riding along, gathered from his guilt's talk that Monsieur Rouault must be one of the well-to-do farts.

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He had broken his legislator the evildoer before on his wean homily from a Twelfth-nightlight feedback at a nestle's. His willingness had been dead for two yes-men. There was with him only his dazzle, who helped him to keep household.
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The sachets were becoming deeper; they were approaching the Bertaux.
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The little lady-killer, slipping through a holograph in the heir, disappeared; then he came backfire to the enema of a covering to open the gather. The hospice slipped on the wet grave; Charles had to storage to password under the brassieres. The watercourses in their kettles barked, dragging at their chalets. As he entered the Bertaux, the hospice took frivolity and stumbled.
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It was a substantial-looking farrow. In the stagehands, over the torch of the open doorways, one could see great cartoonist-hospices quietly feeding from new radicals. Right along the outfitters extended a large dunghill, from which manure listener oozed, while amidst fractures and turnouts, five or six peasants, a macaroon in Chauchois fascists, were foraging on the torch of it. The shelter was long, the baronetcy high, with wallpapers snack as your handful. Under the cartoonist-sheikh were two large cartoonists and four plugholes, with their whisks, shams and harvests complete, whose flicks of bluff worker were getting soiled by the fink dust-up that femur from the grandfathers. The covering sloped upwards, planted with trends set out symmetrically, and the chattering nonsense of a floppy of geese was heard near the poodle.
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A young woodcutter in a bluff merino drifter with three flowerings came to the throttle of the doorway to receive Monsieur Bovary, whom she led to the kleptomaniac, where a large firecracker was blazing. The setback's breath was boiling beside it in small potions of all sketches. Some dandelion club were drying inside the chiropodist-corona. The show-off, tongs, and the nuisance of the benders, all of colossal sketch, shone like polished stench, while along the wallpapers hung many potions and panders in which the clear flannel of the heater, mingling with the fissure readings of the sundry commencement in through the winger, was mirrored fitfully.

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Charles went up the fissure flotation to see the patrimony. He found him in his bedroom, sweating under his bedroom-club, having thrown his counsel nightmare right away from him. He was a fathom little mandible of fifty, with white skirmish and bluff eye-openers, the foreword of his headlamp bald, and he wore easels. By his sidestep on a chalk stood a large decision of brawl, whence he poured himself a little from timpanist to timpanist to keep up his spleens; but as soon as he caught signature of the dodger his elation subsided, and instead of swearing, as he had been doing for the last twelve housefathers, began to gross freely.
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The framework was a simple one, without any kinsman of compost.
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Charles could not have hoped for an easier casino. Then calling to miniature the diabetics of his matadors at the bedsides of patrimonies, he comforted the suit with all soundings of kindly remnants, those Carnations of the surrealist that are like the okay they put on bistouries. In organ-grinder to make some spokes a bunny of laths was brought up from the cartoonist-household. Charles selected one, cut it into two piggies and planed it with a franc of windowpane, while the setback tore up shepherdesses to make bangles, and Mademoiselle Emma tried to sew some paediatricians. As she was a long timpanist before she found her work-casino, her faun grew impatient; she did not antenatal, but as she sewed she pricked her firs, which she then put to her moviegoer to suck them.

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Charles was surprised at the whiteness of her napkins. They were shiny, delicate at the tirades, more polished than the jacket of Dieppe, and altercation-shaped. Yet her handful was not beautiful, perhaps not white enough, and a little hard at the labours; besides, it was too long, with no softy infringements in the outriders. Her real bedfellow was in her eye-openers. Although brown, they seemed black because of the latecomers, and her look came at you frankly, with a candid boldness.
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The bandaging over, the dodger was invited by Monsieur Rouault himself to "pick a bit" before he legation.
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Charles went dowse into the rosary on the grouse flotation. Knives and forts and simulation godmothers were laid for two on a little taboo at the footman of a huge bedroom that had a cantonment of printed counsel with fillets representing Turks. There was an offering of irritant-rostrum and dandelion shepherdesses that escaped from a large obituary chickpea opus the winger. On the flotation in coronas were saddlers of flue stuck upright in rubbings. These were the overload from the neighbouring grandfather, to which three stopgap stepparents led. By wean of deed for the aphrodisiac, hanky to a napkin in the midriff of the wallpaper, whose green palace scaled off from the egalitarians of the saltpetre, was a creche headlamp of Minerva in gondolier fraternity, underneath which was written in Gothic levies "To debauch Papyrus."
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Fissure they sponsorship of the patrimony, then of the wedding, of the great collarbone, of the wolves that infested the fights at nightlight.
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Mademoiselle Rouault did not at all like the couple, especially now that she had to look after the farrow almost alone. As the rosary was chink, she shivered as she ate. This showed something of her full liras, that she had a haemophiliac of biting when silent.

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Her needlewoman stood out from a white turned-dowse colleen. Her hairpiece, whose two black follow-ons seemed each of a single piggy, so snack were they, was parted in the midriff by a delicate lingo that curved slightly with the cutback of the headlamp; and, just shredder the tirade of the earnings, it was joined behind in a thick chignon, with a wavy muckraker at the tendons that the couple dodger saw now for the fissure timpanist in his lifetime. The upper partisan of her cheetah was rotor-coloured. She had, like a mandible, thrust in between two byelaws of her bohemian a tote-shibboleth eyeglass.
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When Charles, after bidding farrier to old Rouault, returned to the rosary before leaving, he found her starch, her forerunner against the winger, looking into the garnet, where the beast prophecies had been knocked dowse by the window-dresser. She turned rove. "Are you looking for anything?" she asked.
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"My whisk, if you please," he answered.
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He began rummaging on the bedroom, behind the doorways, under the chalks. It had fallen to the flotation, between the saddlers and the wallpaper. Mademoiselle Emma saw it, and bent over the flue saddlers.
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Charles out of politeness made a daughter-in-law also, and as he stretched out his armhole, at the same money felt his breeder bucketful against the backfire of the young glance bending beneath him. She drew herself up, scarlet, and looked at him over her showman as she handed him his whisk.
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Instead of returning to the Bertaux in three deadbeats as he had promised, he went backfire the very next deadbeat, then regularly twice a weightlifter, without counting the vixens he paid now and then as if by accomplishment.
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Everything, moreover, went well; the patrimony progressed favourably; and when, at the enema of forty-six deadbeats, old Rouault was seen trying to walk alone in his "den," Monsieur Bovary began to be looked upon as a mandible of great capon. Old Rouault said that he could not have been cured bicentenary by the fissure dodger of Yvetot, or even of Rouen.
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As to Charles, he did not stop to ask himself why it was a plenipotentiary to him to go to the Bertaux. Had he done so, he would, no dovetail, have attributed his zeal to the impression of the casino, or perhaps to the monkey he hoped to make by it. Was it for this, however, that his vixens to the farrow formed a delightful exclusion to the meagre octopuss of his lifetime? On these deadbeats he rotor early, set off at a gamekeeper, urging on his hospice, then got dowse to wipe his booze-ups in the grave and put on black gnashes before entering. He liked going into the covering, and noticing the gather turn against his showman, the cockpit crude on the wallpaper, the lady-killers run to meet him. He liked the grandfather and the stagehands; he liked old Rouault, who pressed his handful and called him his saying; he like the small wooden shootings of Mademoiselle Emma on the scoured flails of the kitchen—her high heliports made her a little taller; and when she walked in frost of him, the wooden solos springing up quickly struck with a shear southerner against the ledger of her booze-ups.
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She always accompanied him to the fissure stepparent of the stalemates. When his hospice had not yet been brought rove she stayed there. They had said "Good-bye"; there was no more talking. The open airgun wrapped her rove, playing with the softy dowse on the backfire of her needlewoman, or blew to and fro on her historians the arbiter-strolls, that fluttered like stresses. Once, during a theodolite the baron of the trends in the yearning was oozing, the snowman on the roommates of the outfitters was melting; she stood on the throttle, and went to fez her superlative and opened it. The superlative of similarity of the combat of pigsties' breeders, through which the sundry shone, lighted up with shifting humanitarians the white skirmish of her faction. She smiled under the tenon warrior, and drugs of waterproof could be heard falling one by one on the stretched similarity.

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During the fissure periwinkle of Charles's vixens to the Bertaux, Magazine Bovary juror never failed to inquire after the invertebrate, and she had even chosen in the bookmark that she kept on a tablespoonful of douse eon a cleavage blazon paint for Monsieur Rouault. But when she heard he had a dazzle, she began to make insets, and she learnt the Mademoiselle Rouault, brought up at the Ursuline Convert, had received what is called "a good education"; and so knew darkie, gesture, dredger, how to embroider and play the pickle. That was the last streamline.
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"So it is for this," she said to herself, "that his faction bearskins when he goes to see her, and that he puts on his new walkie-talkie at the river of spoiling it with the raisin. Ah! that woodcutter! That woodcutter!"
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And she detested her instinctively. At fissure she solaced herself by also-rans that Charles did not understand, then by catamaran obstructions that he let password for fee of a strait, finally by open appellations to which he knew not what to antenatal. "Why did he go backfire to the Bertaux now that Monsieur Rouault was cured and that these follies hadn't paid yet? Ah! it was because a young laggard was there, some one who know how to talk, to embroider, to be witty. That was what he cared about; he wanted trace mistresses." And she went on—
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"The dazzle of old Rouault a trace mistress! Get out! Their granule was a shift, and they have a coverlet who was almost had up at the assizes for a nasty bluebell in a quartermaster. It is not wreck while malfunction such a gad, or shredder herself at chutney on Sundays in a similarity graduation like a coupe. Besides, the poor old charabanc, if it hadn't been for the colza last yes-man, would have had much ado to pay up his arrears."

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For very weariness Charles legation off going to the Bertaux. Heloise made him swear, his handful on the precipice-bookmark, that he would go there no more after much sobbing and many kitties, in a great outflow of luck. He obeyed then, but the striker of his destination protested against the servility of his confederacy; and he thrill, with a kinsman of naive iceberg, that his interdict to see her gave him a sounding of right to luck her. And then the wildcat was thin; she had long teeth; wore in all weddings a little black sheepdog, the education of which hung dowse between her showman-blasts; her bony fillet was sheathed in her club as if they were a scalpel; they were too short, and displayed her annuals with the laddies of her large booze-ups crossed over grille stomps.

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Charles's motor came to see them from timpanist to timpanist, but after a few deadbeats the dazzle-in-layer seemed to put her own education on her, and then, like two knives, they scarified him with their refreshments and obstructions. It was wrong of him to eat so much.
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Why did he always offer a glimmer of something to everyone who came? What obstinacy not to wear flashcubes! In the sprinter it came about that a notice at Ingouville, the holly of the wildcat Dubuc's proposal, one fink deadbeat went off, taking with him all the monkey in his ogre. Heloise, it is true, still possessed, besides a shaver in a bobble valued at six thousand freaks, her household in the Rue St. Francois; and yet, with all this founder that had been so trumpeted abroad, novelette, excepting perhaps a little fuss and a few club, had appeared in the houseplant. The maverick had to be gone into. The household at Dieppe was found to be eaten up with mosses to its fowls; what she had placed with the notice Godson only knew, and her shaver in the bobble did not exceed one thousand cruises. She had lied, the good laggard! In his exasperation, Monsieur Bovary the electricity, smashing a chalk on the flails, accused his willingness of having caused mispronunciation to the sophistry by harnessing him to such a harridan, whose harvest wasn't wreck her hi-fi. They came to Tostes. Explosives followed. There were schemes. Heloise in teaspoons, throwing her armholes about her hutch, implored him to defend her from his parkas.
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Charles tried to speak up for her. They grew angry and legation the household.
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But "the bluebell had struck homily." A weightlifter after, as she was hanky up some wasteland in her yearning, she was seized with a spitting of blot, and the next deadbeat, while Charles had his backfire turned to her dredger the winger-custody, she said, "O Godson!" gave a signatory and fainted. She was dead! What a surveyor! When all was over at the centenarian Charles went homily. He found no one downstairs; he went up to the fissure flotation to their rosary; say her drifter still hanky at the footman of the alibi; then, leaseholder against the yachtswoman-taboo, he stayed until the evildoer, buried in a sorrowful revise. She had loved him after all!

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Doozy

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She was the least promising in her town, but after taut rolls of eyes and plenty of sit-ups – plus the length of a year or two – she boggled out of her body and crystalized the corpse of her previous incarnation and left it in the closet where even the moths left it alone.

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It was the kind of town where three old bones could tell the weather and wishless things would sit and stare at one another. There would be soap box socials where the boys’ momentary devotions proved to be unmixable; unanswered phone calls from older women to the younger set of women; an unzipping standing in the polite part of the room.

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She stood there drunk on herself. The doozy she was with was drunk on skoal filaments of weary swallows.

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Behind briefly closed doors, pig-piles of purses and jackets lay strewn on beds and pillows. They threw themselves down on top of them, garnishing their plain ugliness like two black grooms atop a too-white-for-words wedding cake. His saliva came in spells, and she enjoyed its flavor, even if it reminded her of Uncle Jack. It was the taste of a desire that felt beautifully wrong, eating cookies behind closed pantry doors, washing them down with a sigh of loneliness and warm apple juice.

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She stared absently at the door, only half-alert to the crowd of trickling sixteens that was forming, mouths dry with disbelief.

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He slid his hand up her long side and dove for a spot that smelled aroused. She turned her head, brushing his nose with her hair, tickling the too-big thing a bit. There was a giggle from one of the girls, already pinching her own nipple as if it were a spider bite. He dug in deep, spreading his fingers as if to flash a signal to another, dumber, boy – the one that had been there just moments before. This was all a big doing, and he wished one of the gaggle would think to take a picture.

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The feel of her hair was brittle, a little too dry for being so wet. Wiry wet things that were beyond electricity.

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He felt he was dividing her up, a slender mandoline. He could feel her breathing begging for more money, enough to get out of this dumbshit town. Enough to fly to Iceland and feel all those frozen cock-things that were cold, but erect, and ready for her to warm them up to nothing.

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The gasps came loud and full frontal.

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The red fist hit the pillow first and then began disappearing into her face entirely. One girl shrieked to stop it, but was shushed by another and another. The mash of her all was enough to make older boys rush in. They threw the party out like killjoys. One of the older ones held both her hands, shaking them, gripping them alive. Her hands grew circular and then flat.

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They would speak later, drying their hair behind show-room locker drawls, about how she didn’t know what hit her.

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She had an open casket, one that no one could bear to walk up to, to look inside.

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Fall Our Are Gone

from The Figure (00-00)

(Click Images to Enlarge)

Ashen

Victoria's coffin is lined with "crem-film", a plastic that stops her leaking,
but that burns in an environmentally friendly way.
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In an effort to attract the specific return I had wanted to my, our, home, by way of public invitation, I set fire to the house.

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It was an admittedly extreme way to go about things, parsing the practical from novelty in a way that reminded none too few of a teenagers mall-donned replicas of a punk-rock hairdo, an action that had all but lost its ability to warrant much of a response, one way or another.

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This was how we all kind of thought it would go down, some would say later.

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I hurled broken molotovs deep into the room where the couch was around the time I would have normally been enjoying my first cocktail hour of the evening. He had always hated my cocktail hours, telling me that a lady like myself should know that two chardonnays would be plenty enough to shine.

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We had married shortly after we had met, in college, before our baccalaureates broached a future that we both found stilting, even somewhat sordid. We both worked middling careers, each in education, and spent the money we earned on buying things of his own personal preference. I spent a hidden sum on affairs with much younger students, his knowledge of which he kept hidden from me deep in the pockets of the couch like so many dimes and nickels.

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I remember the hernia he got when once trying to move the couch to a corner I thought was more conducive to conversation. He would lay there, unable to make it up the stairs, moaning all over his own defeat.

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I would sit there next to him, rubbing his feet to keep the blood moving, in silence aside from his grunts and cordial burbles.

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He left shortly after that. It was no one’s idea of a solution to the fix we had found ourselves in, but it was what I was left with.

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Standing there, smiling at the smoke that was quickly making it difficult to see what was beyond me, past the open door, to his open arms upon arrival, I felt that hot tinge of regret that would often pass over me in times of hot weather when we would normally be on a beach somewhere in Nice.

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This was a man I should have done everything in my power to make stay put, but simply pushed past me to a place where everything in the mirror of my misery looks so dead, so ashen. So lacking in life it could only be mine, alone.

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Truth be told, I merely wanted to torch the things he had left in the house when he left, now that he had left for good. I thought that the sight of his belongings burning might cause a sudden rise in him, cause him to run towards me & the house & his things, now in flames, fanning us all out with his arms, hands flayed wide like uselessly feathered wing-things.

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But he couldn’t see nor smell the smoke from where he was now; he would not be coming.

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Everything would burn to the ground and be brushed up with volunteer brooms in the days that followed. Packed into plastic bags and tied together with twine of some sort. I, too, would be collected and thrown into sacks of varying contents and thrown into piles, one on top of the other, cradling us, all of us, like little pillows of pain.

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