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Nov. 30th, 2009 @ 09:09 pm The Black Undulation
Disclaimer: If this makes no sense, that's because it's not meant to. It's a grammatical regularisation of an auditory word-for-word substitution of an extract from H. C. Branner's De Blaa Undulater. (I do quite like how I've managed to stick in the word 'eldritch' at the end though.)

Neither Katherine nor Aaron received their gifts till they came to school in the morning. These were handed to them after midday. Some time long after midday, someone's leg was volleyed across the gravel, and came near a signet, at some altitude above sea level. It was a stiff leg of wood. Hands followed a storm of scones, near the lava in the sandpit, then a gift of ichor and venom. One sea of ichor, one sea of wood legs, nice hands pegged and scratching vegetable rats. School tasks hang over Rheims, the skulduggery of desk mode, as hands heft one gift. Sometimes a toga, often a track. Then after that, some signs in Lille, in brown handwriting. This lava in the sandpit there, one toga in ichor. A task, an operation, a track. Then midgets also leg it, gunning for the sandpit.

A pair of vegetables needs gunning. Nougat buyers skate there, tittering. Grand handlers have some time, in case abler maids stand wooden for sin boutiques, and kind forbidden Katherine's right hand snaps at wood. Hands and a signet, the ablest pair of legs standing in a sea of ichor, a sea of wood legs. That ichor goes to hell, for the ablest and skilled, one pistol all that leg of evil ichor needs. Come operate on the pair of school vegetables, load the one that falls off, give it that sea-spark. Hope fortifies heads and trefoil stickers. The sea stymied Andre's salmon. Katherine, thief of clear jet. The chorus sometimes sang: 'Aura for Katherine! Aura for Katherine!' Katherine's sea legs of wood. Load them for rape. Someone near me signalled the school, blew my cover. Mere scrutiny of flamboyance, mere stiff hooves and a signet. These men blew and wept mad tears. 'Aura', track one. Over laden lids, an operation on the sea. Standing men see and frame tender horns.

'Kafka!' said one, hands only going to sign the Psalter.

Till off to that nook he goes, still at the tavern. The slathered hell of old rigs, skinny vistas of mangy things come to hand. One logged, a snooty stall, one hugged. Andre operated the gavel, with a poultice to screw them after. Have one sea of screwed sin, farce in the nave after a pair of saddled men. One gift of leg, gravel volleys gunning the salmon from an altitude. Andre also goes banging for them. Nearly everyone has a jot of nougat. Forfeit delight, kindly risk the pair after standing, the pair of sere hens. Hand me bangs only, eldritch men who sagged.
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