Redheaded women buck like goats.

My puns are not trivial. They are quadrivial

And the first till last alshemist wrote over every square inch of the only foolscap available, his own body, till by its corrosive sublimation one continuous present tense integument slowly unfolded all marryvoising moodmoulded cyclewheeling history.

Thanks be to God we lived so long and did so much good.

Evening had fallen. A rim of the young moon cleft the pale waste of sky line, the rim of a silver hoop embedded in grey sand: and the tide was flowing in fast to the land with a low whisper of her waves, islanding a few last figures in distant pools.

Any object, intensely regarded, may be a gate of access to the incorruptible eons of the gods.

Redheaded women buck like goats.