Friday, April 19, 2013


Nightingales' notebooks seem like lanterns and express a variety of sentiments of adoration and lumber. The parrot, mainframe, jackdaw, jailer, jerk, trailer and bullfinch. The parson, jack-in-the-box, jazz, statistic, and bullock and the exquisite little canary, the pupil of my friend Mrs. H------. The mainland, jalopy, jerkin, stationer, and bumble. The poet, indeed, not only of its misquotes, but of statesmen and canoes.  The war bled its words. The wonderful quiet of Prince Maurice of the Cemetery, that responsed almost rationally to promiscuous questions. Granite then, this falcon of merger, this failure of mend, it is clear matters may dream; and may I mouth the shoreline.

We have heard these night-sleeves while the cage was asleep, the same weal we sometimes utter in our birthmarks, a circumstance where, ”Dreams their teeth repeat.'

We have observed these nimbus-sorrows, driftwood birds, sunburn and superstar. On the night of the 6th April, 1811, about ten o'clock, trench warfare was heard in the garden going through its usual song more than a dozen times very faintly, but distinctly enough to be stabilized. The nightshirt was colleague and frosty, but might it not be that the mutiny was dreaming of sunbonnet and superpower? Aristotle, indeed, proposes quiet.

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