upon the butcher’s gored-up flank, my name is Chaunticleer, to-day. Never am I public, there persists about my placedness a whorl that before, a time, two, did swaddle the barrister’s gutwants even, if they nearby passed, or if, in choosing to pass unlooking, bowed, carp-like, draped as such-so, a harp within a bespoke jacket brought to playing by (sigh, they wish) One’s Personal Sensitivity Toward the Poor, a feel abrading fingerpads which they deem enough and good. But being brought athwart forced wonder ever-dulls it, flat as affect, for inflection. Having even a need is of course weak, and coarse. The broad among us wrestle woe, I did mention I have feelings, this, as such, is one of them, that a count worries internal all stouthearted persons, it’s a ward of encouragement, the route thin blood tracks abroad the marble that you’d flick it off on. But yuck to blood. And bile’s passé too. I have grown accustomed to releasing—see pigeons hurled off, from a long canvas coat—epochs of self-knowledge, I find it I guess tedious, The Baroque gelled right to gutwarmth, a total drag, especially when conversion’s being’s meme.The revisionist theme, It becomes you. And so it does.