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Jimodotate
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Tropic of Cancer (5th Dec 22 at 12:51am UTC)
By the way, please let me know what day of the week is best. It worked so well that they not only fed me, but also feasted me, and I went back drunk every night. These good people, who treat me once a week, are very attentive to me, and they don't care how I spend the days between meals. Sometimes a few considerate people will give me a few cigarettes or a little pocket money. They were obviously relieved to know that they would only see me once a week, and they were relieved to hear me say, "This is no longer necessary.". They never asked me why I didn't go. They just congratulated me. The usual reason is that I have found a more hospitable host and can risk leaving the hospitality of several difficult hosts, who, of course, have never thought of the mystery themselves. Later, I had a stable and reliable schedule, which was a fixed schedule. I knew in advance that I would have this dinner on Tuesdays and this dinner on Fridays. I knew that Cronstadt would invite me to drink champagne and eat home-made apple pie, and Carl would invite me out to eat, each time to a different restaurant, called Grand Wine,ibc spill containment pallet, and after dinner to the theatre or to the Circus of Medeldo. My hosts love to ask each other for information. They ask me which restaurant I like best, which cook is good, and so on. I think I like Kronstadt's hind leg the best. Maybe it's because he smears food on the wall every time. To know that I owed him such a large debt was a trouble to my conscience, for I did not intend to repay him, nor did he expect me to do so. No, it is the remainders that puzzle me so much. He keeps settling the accounts to the last boy. I must break in a sou if I am to pay up. Cronstadt's wife, who is a good cook,plastic pallet containers, takes no notice of the sum he adds up; she has blotted it out for me from the duplicate account. This is a fact. But if I go without new carbon paper, she gets very upset. So I had to take the little girl to Luxembourg the next day and play with her for two or three hours. It was a task that drove me crazy because she spoke only Hungarian and French. My hosts in general are a bunch of weirdos. At Tania's house, I looked down from the balcony at the banquet table. Moldorf was there, sitting beside his idol. He put his feet up to the fire with a curiously grateful expression in his watery eyes. Tania was playing a slow tune, and the tune was very clear-no more love words! I went to the fountain again and watched the turtles urinate like green milk. Sylvester had just returned from Broadway, and his heart was full of tenderness. I lay all night by the side of the tree-lined road, while the whole earth was sprinkled with hot tortoise urine, and the sexually aroused male horse with his penis erect ran like crazy without touching the ground. All night I could smell the lilacs in the little dark room, where she was taking down the flowers in her hair that I had bought for her when she went to meet Sylvester. She said that Sylvester had come back full of tenderness, with the lilacs still in her head, in her mouth, and under her armpits. The room was full of love, collapsible pallet bin ,secondary containment pallet, tortoise urine, warm lilacs and galloping horses. In the morning, the windows were covered with teeth and dirt, and the little door to the Avenue was locked. People go to work and the shutters rattle like armor. In the bookstore opposite the fountain, there are stories of Lake Chad and silent and colorful green and yellow lizards. All the letters I wrote to her were written drunk, with abrupt endings and crazy words painted with charcoal. I wrote slowly on one bench after another, surrounded by firecrackers, small cushions and fruit ice cream. They must be reading them together now, and Sylvester will some day pay me a compliment. He would flick his cigarette ash and say, "Honestly, you write very well.". So you're a surrealist, aren't you? His voice was dry, sharp and thin, and his teeth were covered with dandruff. He pronounced "solo" for "solar plexus" "and" G "for" gaga. "I stood on the balcony with the rubber tree by my side, and the adagio echoed upstairs.
The keys are black and white, then another black and another white, then another white and another black. You want to know if you can play something for me. Okay, just play something with your big thumb. Play the Adagio. It's the only thing you know how to play. Play it, and then cut off your thick thumb. Adagio! I couldn't understand why she kept on playing it. She decided that the original piano wasn't good enough, so she rented another horizontal piano, just to play the adagio! Looking at her clumsy fingers on the piano keys and the silly rubber tree beside her, I felt like I had become a madman in Norse mythology, who had taken off his clothes and sat naked on the tree in winter, throwing walnuts into the cold sea. There is something exasperating in this movement, something inexplicably sad, as if it had been written in lava, as if it were a mixture of lead and milk. Sylvester's head was tilted to one side like an auctioneer's. He said, "play the other movement, the one you practiced today." It's so nice to have a smoking suit, a nice snowflake and a wife who can play the piano. It makes people so relaxed and comfortable. You go out for a smoke and a breath of fresh air between the two programs. Yes, her fingers are very soft, not generally soft. She also does batik work. Would you like to smoke a Bulgarian cigarette? Hey, chicken breast, what's the other movement I like? It's called Scherzo! That's great, banter! This is Count Waldemar von Schwinzinger talking, with his cool, dandruff-colored eyes, bad breath, and tacky socks. Please add some croutons to the pea soup. We often have pea soup on Friday nights. Would you like some red wine? Red wine is drunk with meat. His voice was dry and sharp. Would you like a cigar? Yes,collapsible bulk containers, I like my job, but I don't attach much importance to it. My next play is going to explore the idea of multiple universes, with rotating lamps and magnesium lights. O'Neill is dead. binpallet.com
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