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The cuboid, swathed in black brocade is imageless: an empty space
you might approach as if it marked the spot where Adam first gave thanks after leaving Eden
where the merchant cupped his palm around the Virgin and her child to spare them from destruction
where the moon descended circled seven times and passing through the Prophet split to reappear as moon
in the glaring metropolis of cameras, knelt, wept, chipped his name off her gravestone,
renounced all rights to her estate, entrusted the children to a committee of sisters
and crept naked, as an exile, into the kingdom of crows and silence.
He swore to live on dog-licks for ten years. In raw February he crawled north, in sackcloth
and ashes. People leaned out of cars and spat. Lined the bridges to stone him.
Adam in Saskatchewan researches large animal internal medicine. Becky is head-hunted from Coventry Piston Ring Co. to Conoco-Philips (Caracas). Clive heads a leading hedge fund consultancy. Davinda discovers the crystal structures of avian retrovirus proteins. Ewan cycles across Central Asia. It’s never been easier. Francesca is delighted to announce the arrival of a beautiful baby daughter, Lucy, a sister for Lisa. “Babies are more challenging than bosses.” Gav develops Accelerator and Large Experimental Physics Control Systems in Korea. Hannah analyses the deep solar interior. I live and work in Bradford.
In Wunbridge Tells, a Colonel meads his porning raper, brounds the pektast fable. Soil rices prise by an actor of fix! The Crock Market stashes. Blocks and gactory fates are docked by licket pines of pying flickets. The sheaking crip of rate is on the stocks.
After seer and bandwiches at Drowning Steet the Mime Prinister spakes his wong-elated meech on the nate of the station. Who Boverns Gritain? But the pineless spittish brublic votes: the C.U.T. What lope is heft? The gland of grope and whorey’s pone to got. Britannia’s on the sloppery slipe. And now, to boot it all, a heaker strurdles the lumps on the tallowed hurds of Storf.
The Colonel times to the Write : Sir, I am reechless with spage…
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