#this was just a little scribble I forgot to include on the other post :o might draw some new stuff tmrw?

[outismm]

sir could I interest you in a little smooch. would you be able to fit a mwah into your busy schedule. what is your professional opinion on getting a little kisskiss. asking for a friend.

[miekasa]

daylight’s wasting (you better kiss me)

↯ pairing: eren jaeger x reader

↯ genre and warnings: college au, fluff, someone please be gentle with this boy i’m begging you, jean and eren pretending they don’t give a fuck about each other whilst actually being best bros for the win

↯ word count: 2k

↯ summary: based off of that reddit post about some guy talking about his girlfriend washing his hair for the first time + hoping it fills a request for someone asking for reader playing with eren’s hair for the first time :’)

↯ notes: this is cross-posted and edited slightly from another blog in a completely separate fandom, so if you’ve seen it before, no you didn’t </2

Jean can’t say that he immediately noticed a pep in Eren’s step when the green-eyed boy met him in the library, but what he does notice is the stupid, dopey looking grin and starry-eyed gaze in his eyes that he’s sporting while he’s not doing his part for their project. And while Jean considers himself relatively attractive, he knows for sure Eren isn’t shy about making it known that he doesn’t; so the brunette doubts the literal heart eyes Eren has are for him.

“Eren? Eren, bro, are you good?” Jean calls, a dark eyebrow raised above his left eye. Eren barely registers the calls of his name, and it takes Jean waving his hands in front of the shorter’s face for him to wake from his trance, looking up at Jean with that same, longing smile (that’s, admittedly, starting to creep him the fuck out).

“Yeah,” Eren sighs, something reminiscent of a lovelorn cartoon prince, as he rests his elbow atop his notebook and his chin the palm of his hand, “I’m good.”

Jean looks at him, skeptical and confused. He shifts in his seat, but Eren’s eyes don’t follow—he just stares ahead, lost in thought and completely unaware of everything around him. He looks like a lovesick little bitch if you ask Jean. Or completely sloshed.

Slowly, Jean leads forward, eyebrows pinched, looking for streaks of red in Eren’s eyes, “Are you stoned right now?”

“What?” Eren pulls back, almost offended, “No, I’m not high—Jean, what the fuck?”

Jean simply shrugs, leaning back into his seat, “I dunno. Yesterday you were so stressed about your acrobatic salt cycle samples—”

“—Acetylsalicylic acid. It’s basically Asprin, and I wasn’t stressed, they just weren’t crystallizing the they way they’re supposed to—”

“I don’t fucking care. But now you look mellow as hell,” Jean cuts him off, “Just thought maybe you rolled a good one before coming here or something. Not that I’m judging, of course. But you’re much more of a lightweight than you think, so try not to go—”

“‘M not a fucking lightweight,” Eren groans, “You and Reiner are just heavy bodied.”

“Just admit you can’t hold your shit, Jaeger.”

“I’m not admitting shit. Mikasa makes strong drinks, that’s all.”

Jean grits his teeth at Eren’s stubborn antics, but lets it go. It’s not like the conversation was going anywhere, anyways. “If you’re not baked, then what’s got your head in the clouds?”

Eren shifts in his seat now, pulling his hand off the table, and into his lap. Jean’s suspicious eyebrow is quirked again, and that slightly creeped-out feeling is back when he spots Eren’s ears going red.

Jesus Christ, he just asked a simple question.

“Not that I care,” Jean tacks on, feigning disinterest, “But if it’s gonna keep you from doing your half of the project, just spill it already so we can get this shit over with.”

Eren rolls his eyes, but that blush is still there. He looks like he contemplates waving it off for a minute, before he sighs. “(Y/N) and I showered together yesterday,” he finally blurts.

Jean blinks. “Oh. So you got laid—”

“—No, no, it wasn’t like that!” Eren corrects him, the red on his ears spreading to his cheeks slowly, with every word that spills out of his mouth. Eren stutters, a hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck, “She just… She washed my hair.”

Eren sighs, flustered and frustrated, and annoyed that he looks like this in front of Jean’s horse-faced ass of all people; but he knows, that no matter how much shit Jean talks, he can rely on him. For better or (often times) for worse.

And Jean, for as hotheaded as he can get, and for as much as Eren annoys the shit of out him, knows how to read a room; and in this moment, he can see that Eren is actually coming to him with genuine emotions, other than masked anger and abrasiveness. So, the both of them concede; pull back from their usual pointed commentary, and listen to what the other has to say. 

“Ah,” Jean comments, lamely; an embarrassed blush of his own growing on his face at his stupidity. The two sit in silence for a moment, before Jean speaks up again, “It’s, uh… It’s nice, right?”

Eren’s eyes snap to him, wide. He almost completely forgot that Jean’s in a committed relationship, too. The two don’t often go to each other for relationship advice, or… relationship venting, but Eren makes a mental note that maybe, just maybe, he should.  

“Yeah,” Eren admits, “I don’t, uh, I don’t know how to explain it. It was just—”

“Relaxing?”

“Yeah. Like all the bullshit from school just melted away all of a sudden,” Eren confesses, “All she fucking did was wash my hair and hum for, like, five minutes, but I feel like… I don’t know. Good.”

Jean hums, acknowledging Eren’s words and mulling them over. “Loved,” he chimes in with an awkward cough, “Pretty sure that’s the word you’re looking for, Jaeger.”

Eren chokes on air, his eyes darting around the room. So, yeah, it’s still a little awkward, talking with Jean of all people about his relationship, and love, and all that gushy stuff; but, even Eren can admit, it’s comforting to know that someone knows what he’s feeling—even if that someone is Jean.

“You should tell her. Girls like that shit, when you tell em what you’re thinking, you know?” Jean comments, picking up his pen to resume scribbling in his notebook. He sounds nonchalant, but from the redness on his face, Eren can tell he’s just as flustered, and probably thinking about his own girlfriend. “Besides, you’ve been together for a long ass time now. Don’t know what you’re waiting for at this point.”

“Yeah,” Eren coughs, pretending to resume his own homework, “Yeah, I think I will.”

“Good,” Jean nods, “Now will you fucking paste your paragraph in the Google Doc so I can rewrite it and make it coherent.”

“Fuck you, it’s coherent as is.”

“As if. I’ve read your shit before, and it sounds like it was written by six year old on meth. You science majors can’t write to save your life.”

“Tough talk from someone who can’t do basic addition.”

“Derivatives and shit aren’t basic addition, they were created by a man who died a virgin. Tells me everything I need to know about them and you.”

Three days later, Eren finds himself alone in your off-campus apartment, laying on your bed, stomach to the mattress, while he tries to convince himself to study for his upcoming biology exam. He finds looking around your room to be much more interesting, though, and takes the time to notice things he hadn’t before.

There’s a small strip of images of the two of your in a clear mason jar on your nightstand—the newest addition to your collection—from the photo booth at the ice-skating rink you went to last week. Eren doesn’t know why you insist on going to every photo booth you come across, but who is he to deny you the pictures.

When he looks to your closet, he isn’t surprised to see two of his hoodies, one of his warm-up soccer uniforms, and last season’s hockey jersey hanging up. What does surprise him, is the way they’re all hung up next to each other, like they have their own little section amongst your clothing; like they were reserved, special almost. He bets they’re all probably washed and clean, too; because you take care of his things like that.

He thinks about how he has a few pairs of sweatpants and pajamas—hell, even a pair of slacks and a button-down from one of your fancier dates—all tucked away in his very own drawer in your dresser. The bucket hats thats you claim are oh-so ugly still have their own place in your room, hanging next to your belts. Even his psychology textbook sits on your desk, clearly set aside for him and taken care of, but still integrated amongst your other belongings. 

You seem to be the only person who thinks Eren and all his baggage can have a place in your life. You seem to always have space for things to fit in, no matter how stupid, or ugly, or tattered they are; no matter how emotional, or lost, or impulsive he is. Nothing is out of place here, himself included. 

Lost in his thoughts, Eren doesn’t register the sound of your front door opening, or your footsteps growing louder. In fact, he doesn’t register that you’re home at all, until you come padding into your bedroom, shaking your backpack off of your shoulders and setting it next to his on the ground.

“Hey, baby,” you greet him, almost offhandedly, as you place your coffee down on your desk. He doesn’t mind—actually the element of practiced casualness in your tone brings a kind of warmth to him, and makes his stomach flutter. 

“Hey,” he smiles, a stupidly fond look in his eye as his watched you shimmy your jacket off of your shoulders. 

Eren sits himself upwards, shifting so that his long legs dangle off the edge of your bed as he watching your silhouette move throughout your bedroom. When you’re finished removing all your layers and jewelry, you finally look to him, greeting him a second time as you walk towards him and your bed.

Eren cages you in when you reach him, his ankles wrapped on top of each other as he secures you standing between his legs. He wraps his arms loosely around your waist, while your fingers crawl up the nape of his neck.

“Your hair’s dry,” you hum, your fingers raking through his brown locks as if to make your point, “You didn’t shower yet?”

Eren shakes his head lightly, craning his neck forwards to tuck the cold tip of his nose into your collar. He holds you a little tighter when you smooth his hair down, one of your hands resting against the back of his neck, and lightly scraping at the hairs near his nape.

“How come?” you question innocently, “I thought your classes ended a few hours ago—did your lab go late again? You should tell your TA you have a life outside of trying to culture bacteria in a dish, you know.”

Eren chuckles lightly, but feels the concern in your voice tug heavily at his heart strings. You seem to really hate his lab TA.

“Wasn’t him this time,” Eren mumbles against your skin, “Was waiting for you.”

“Yeah? That gonna be a regular thing, now?”

“Wouldn’t mind,” Eren confesses, words barely audible as he buries his face into your neck. He tries tickle you with his eyelashes, shift the heat towards you, but you move out of reach too quickly; your hands on his shoulders, forcing him to sit upright.

He has to look up you, just slightly, and he hopes he doesn’t look like a complete blushing idiot. If he does, you don’t seem to mind, if the way you cup his face between your hands is any indication.

“Well then, come on. I bought two new loofahs yesterday.”

Eren follows you to the bathroom with a smile, borderline giggling with excitement all the way to the shower. When it comes down to it, he relishes in the feeling of your fingertips against his scalp, suds of shampoo cascading down his neck as you find amusement in coiling his hair into a bubbly mohawk.

It’s so mundane, so simple, yet overwhelmingly intimate the way you’re taking care of him—the way you always take care of him. It fills Eren to the brim with emotions he can’t even begin to convey with words.

And when you’ve had you’re fun, and made sure his hair is throughly clean and smells like apples, you take your body wash on the ball of his (his! his very own!) loofah, and scrub away at his back, down his shoulders, across his torso; and Eren can’t stop the tears from falling.

He realizes his must look bizzare, to be standing the middle of your shower, crying like a baby with soap and suds all over his body, but he can’t help himself.

“Eren? Baby, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing,” he assures you, hiccuping between his words and sniffling away any more tears that threaten to fall. You don’t seem convinced, and once again, Eren feels his heart swell at just the sheer thought at you’d hold even an ounce of concern for him the way you do.

“You’re crying, Eren,” you point out, voice soft, but clearly concerned, as you reach your hands up to cup his face again, “Did I hurt you? What’s wr—”

Eren cuts you off by wrapping you in a hug, hoping—praying—you know that you could never hurt him. The two of you spend nearly five whole minutes like that, your arms wrapped around each other’s middles, with warm water pouring over your naked skin. Eren can feel you pressing shallow kisses into his chest, and he feels his heart physically swell every time your lips make contact with his skin.

It’s on the fifth, quiet press of your lips that Eren knows he can’t hold it in anymore; pulls away from your embrace to look you in your eyes.

“I love you,” he finally confesses, with wet hair stuck to his forehead, and teary eyes. It’s hardly a picture perfect moment, but Eren can’t bring himself to care; he needs you to know.

But, of course, you already did. “I know, Eren,” you say with a smile, kissing his chin, and then on the tips of your toes, his lips, “And I love you more.”

[king-ofthe-ruckus]

I don’t know has been talked about but I love the twins watching YouTube or having their own separate chanels. Especially if they somehow get into rivalry about their channels.

Thoughts?

I fucking love AUs buddy, and modern AU for the twins are my favorite, because i feel like I can manipulate their relationship for it to be so much for fun, and since my version of Modern AU quite honestly doesn’t include my modern day reality, it’s just pure imagination, and I L O V E it, so thank you so so much for this ask.

special shout out to @panandproud123 @alexanderwesker and @orphisthedragon because i don’t know youtube at all XD

I’m not a big youtube-watcher person, i pretty much only watch @wearewatcher [ with Shane Madej, Ryan Bergara, and Steven Lim ] and there’s a lot happening on that channel, but that’s similar to how I imagine Jerome being like when he Jonathan and Jervis collab. But Jerome’s individual channel is closer along the lines of pranking people/making things explode/following tutorials terribly. He actually does quite a lot of review for people’s products, surprisingly, and people starts sending him things to be reviewed. He’ll also do Play With Me-type videos with Miah when they collab, because Jerome is incredibly good and predicting what will be useful in the future and playing the fighting sequences, but Miah is really good at the problem solving and figuring how the story will progress so they can be better prepared for following the storyline. 

Jeremiah’s youtube channel is pretty all over the place actually because he’s terrible at uploading at normal times [ there’s has been times he’s uploaded at 3am on a monday and then didn’t upload until three months later, and it was five videos at once and it’s because he got lost in a project and forgot to get around to editing and posting said videos ] however his playlists are like sped versions of him making blueprints and shit of building from shows/movies/video games and seeing if their real [ fyi this idea is totally from @alexanderwesker from that time on discord XD ] a playlist of videos where he’ll go into depth about engineering and the different types of architecture [ kinda like how in Alex’s Dream of Me (Till We Meet Again) Jeremiah mentions Gotham being Gothic vs. Neo-Gothic like everywhere else, which i believe because Alex is like John Mulaney where they could say anything and i would believe them wholeheartedly [ can you guess where all understanding of engineering is from?? XD ] ]

But their channels are sort of like John and Hank Green where usually a person prefers one of the other, but overall if you like one it’s not uncommon to like the other [ i’m thinking about the Dolan twins but i’m kinda here for the idea of Jeremiah and Jerome doing a Spelling Bee and getting shocked with dog collars when wrong [ Jerome wins fyi ] ] but anyways they also do a lot of competitions for victims of abuse and those with alcohol addictions, neither is vocal about their personal experience with either, but they’ve made it clear that they are particularly strong advocates, and they make their platforms safe space for LGBTQ+ as well.

however they each are very possessive of their fans, like “well my fans made me this!” and hold up a tie with the little colorful lines and little scribbled quotes [ there’s a legend/key [ i’m not sure if there’s a specific word that applies for engineering stuff ] that came with it that says when he said the quote and which blueprint they used to make the tie ] and then Jerome will hold up his t-shirt that had a common meme that they use of him [ that’s the equivalent of “i’ve connected two dots” “you didn’t connect shit” “i’ve connected them” ] and he’s just like, “Step it up, baby bro, my fans are /way/ better than yours could ever wish to be!”

[sceptilemasterr]

Endless Summer: The (un)Official Screenplay - “End Credits”

Yes, you read that right: this movie script does include an “End Credits” of sorts! Though since there are very few people who actually worked on this script (aka: just me), I’m also going to be including my final thoughts on how the script turned out, where the story’s going from here, what the hell is up with that “CIU Project” tag I keep adding to these, and... in true MCU-style fashion, even an end-credits scene! Or two?

Masterlist: Link

CREDITS:

Written by: SceptileMasterr (obviously)

Based On: Endless Summer, Book 1 by Pixelberry Studios (with some additional elements taken from Hero, Vol 1)

Copyright Info: All names, places, and concepts from Endless Summer and Hero are copyright Pixelberry Studios. The only things I own here are Ian and Alyssa, my various Vaanti OCs, as well as the majority of the Vaanti language except the words taken from canon (conlangs are hard!)

Inspirations:

The MC Twins: @blightarts (go read his Pokemon Summer Version crossover fic where I got that idea from, btw, it’s awesome)

Movie Concept in General: @mysteli and her amazing ES Fan Trailers (both of them!)

Estela and Ian’s First Kiss: Borrowed from another one of my fics, “Sunset”

Screenwriting Software: Final Draft 11

Special Thanks:

@brightpinkpeppercorn: My fandom twin and “beta reader” of sorts; thanks for all the great and fun discussions we had about the twins, their loves, the story, and concepts and future plans; they’ve been great! I love and appreciate your feedback!

@mysteli: You’re the entire reason I started this project! Ever since your first ES trailer I have envisioned what an ES movie would be like. And then my imagination spiraled out of control from there... Appreciate your feedback as well!

@edgydepressedchoicesthot: A fellow Estela stan! I met you even before I had a Tumblr, back on AO3. I read and fell in love with your ES rewrite series there... then school blocked AO3 (grr) but I eventually caught up! I hope you enjoyed this rewrite as much as I liked yours!

@bbaba-yagaa: A more recent fandom friend, but I’m so glad I met you and your blog! I adore your Estela fics so much!

@endlesshero1122: I’m still amazed at how we had such similar ideas with our respective ES and Hero rewrites. Dual MCs and everything, with one of them even being named Alyssa, what are the odds?! Glad you’ve enjoyed this script!

...And of course, everyone not on the tag list who’ve liked, read, and/or commented on this script! Every time I get a new like or comment, it makes me so happy to know that I made someone’s day a little better with this screenplay-rewrite of a visual novel we all know and love. I love writing; I really have a passion for it, and I hope I can continue entertaining people with my future stories to come!

And SPEAKING of future stories...

FADE IN:

INT. THE CELESTIAL LOBBY - DAY

Estela is standing at the concierge desk, gazing at several sheets of paper stacked atop it. The elevator doors open, and Ian emerges, the folders he’d found previously now clutched in his hands. She turns at his approach.

ESTELA: Ian! There you are! Listen, you should see this-

IAN: Look, I... I’ve got something I need to show you. To show everyone, really. Where are they?

ESTELA: I think most of them are still sleeping. Can’t say I blame them, after last... night? Morning? Day? Anyway, look.

Ian crosses over to the desk and looks at the papers. On them, in a messy scrawl, are written several seemingly non-sequitur messages. Ian picks one up and reads it, confused.

IAN: “The Hostiles know.” “McKenzie equals Lupus.” “The STARS are key!!” “He’s here he’s here he’s here he’s here...”

He looks up at Estela.

IAN: What is this? Looks like nonsense.

ESTELA: I’m not sure. But more to the point, this wasn’t here before we “time traveled.” Someone was here during the 204 days we skipped. Is this Diego’s handwriting?

IAN: Nah. I’d know his scribbles anywhere. Doubt it’s the Hostiles, either, since they don’t speak English.

ESTELA: So that means... what?

Before Ian can respond, the elevators open again, and Alyssa and Jake emerge. They stop short when they see the folders in Ian’s hand.

ALYSSA: Wait, are those-?

JAKE (simultaneously): You found some too?!

Estela and Ian turn to face them. Ian shrugs and holds up the folders.

IAN: I... I didn’t mean to keep these from you guys, I just didn’t really get the chance-

He stops when he realizes what Alyssa and Jake had said.

IAN: Wait... “found some too?” You both-

Alyssa shrugs sheepishly.

ALYSSA: At that emergency shelter. One of ‘em was about you, Estela.

ESTELA: Me?

IAN: You should’ve shown her!

ESTELA: To be fair, we all had our reasons for not trusting one another, especially at first.

She pulls out her own set of folders. The top one is Jake’s, and she hands it to him.

ESTELA: This is yours, I believe.

JAKE: Goddamn...

He flips through it, saying nothing, but his eyes go wide in surprise.

JAKE: Hang on. Be right back.

He sprints out of the lobby, toward the entrance to the basement. Alyssa hangs her head and sighs.

ALYSSA: Sorry, Estela. Really. We’re long past the point where we should’ve stopped keeping secrets from each other-

ESTELA: It’s fine. Apparently we all did the same thing.

IAN: I was hoping to find everyone so I could show them all at once. I’ve got Craig’s, Zahra’s, and Quinn’s.

ALYSSA: But how do they know this much stuff about us? Birthdates, locations, history... except yours, Estela; a lot of it’s blacked out for some reason.

She hands the folder to Estela, who reads through it.

ESTELA: What is here is worryingly accurate. How could Rourke possibly know all of this? Down to the last detail?!

Alyssa shivers involuntarily.

ALYSSA: I dunno, but it’s freaking me out-

Jake bounds back up the stairs, a pair of folders clutched in his hands.

JAKE: Found these right before all that Aleister business started, and then I forgot all about it, given... uh, what happened that night.

He looks awkwardly at Ian. Alyssa coughs and glares at Jake.

IAN: What happened that night?

ALYSSA: None of your business! Actually, hang on: what were you two doing that night? I seem to remember you rushing in together-

IAN: “None of your business!”

ALYSSA: I really should’ve seen that coming.

JAKE: None of that matters right now. You two are gonna wanna see these.

He passes the twins’ folders to each of them. They stand side by side as they open the folders, staring openmouthed at the “Birth” sections.

IAN: “December 31, 1995 - 11:59 PM” ... “Location... La Huerta?!”

ALYSSA: Mine says “January 1, 1996 - 12:00 AM.” Also La Huerta.

JAKE: There’s no way in hell you two were born here. You’d have known that, right?

Alyssa and Ian shake their heads.

ALYSSA: Jake... we were adopted together when we were babies. We never knew our birth parents or anything.

IAN: Our birth certificates said “January 1st, ‘96,” so that’s just when we celebrated, but... Alyssa...

ALYSSA: If Jake and Estela’s birthday info is all true, and if the others’ are true as well, then...

IAN: ...We were born here. On La Huerta.

ALYSSA: Ian... who are we?!

FADE TO BLACK.

TO BE CONTINUED IN... ENDLESS WINTER

FINAL THOUGHTS AND FUTURE PLANS:

How do you actually write one of these things? Well, I start out by playing through the canon chapter(s) that a given scene is based on and transcribing the script into Word for reference. The canon ES chapters are L-O-N-G, by the way. Then, I decide what to keep, what to alter, what to get rid of, and which lines to include unchanged, and then I write the actual script! After that, I run through it once to edit, then I’ll read the lines aloud and make more changes to make them sound natural. Post it to Tumblr, fix the formatting (and edit once again), then voila! A scene is born!

What was up with the changes? You skipped a ton of scenes! I thought the script turned out well, and (based on people’s reactions and comments) reasonably easy to follow even with all the changes. Most of the changes were made with the aim of streamlining and shortening the story; even with all the scenes cut from canon, the script still ended up being an estimated 3 hours long! Yikes! The other major changes were mostly made with the aim of setting up threads for weaving a greater story, which leads us to...

What the hell is “CIU Project?” Okay, okay, if anyone’s looked in the tags, you’ve probably noticed the recurring tag “ciu project” as well as tagging my Vaanti OC names with (CIU) at the end of it. CIU stands for “Choices Interconnected Universe” and is what I’m calling any- and everything that takes place in the same universe as this ES rewrite. There will be a more detailed post about the CIU and a general idea of my plans for it later on, but I wanted to wait to announce it until this first script was finished!

Have you written anything else in your CIU universe? “Choices Interconnected Universe Universe?” Okay, but seriously, this is the first official, “canon” work set in the CIU. I have written my Vaanu “Post-Credits Scene” during ESAPW, but consider that more of a loose “teaser” for the project than anything. Once I get to the script that scene’s meant to appear in, I will rewrite it and it may have a few tiny details different. Anything else I write in the CIU will be tagged with “ciu project” (no quotes) so you can find it easily there!

What other Choices books besides Endless Summer are going to be involved? I’ll be explaining that in the separate CIU post I plan to make soon, but in the meantime... 

FADE IN:

INT. L.A.P.D. STATION - OFFICE - NIGHT (FIVE MONTHS AGO)

A man in a crisp suit, his back to the camera, scrolls through data about Rourke International on his computer screen; images of Jake, Lila, and Aleister appear beside a satellite view of the Caribbean Sea. Scattered on his desk are copies of the various dossier pages that Ian, Alyssa, Jake, and Estela had all found across La Huerta. The man sighs and rubs his forehead in frustration.

The door swings open, and a young auburn-haired policewoman rushes into the office, slightly out of breath. This is Jake’s sister, REBECCA MCKENZIE. The man looks up as she enters.

MAN: ...Officer McKenzie? I told you I’d let you know when I found something-

REBECCA: They’re pulling you off the case. You’re getting reassigned. I asked her not to, but-

MAN: Listen, Officer, I told you before: technically this case is well outside my jurisdiction. It’s not even in this country, let alone the city. I figured it was only a matter of time ‘til they wanted me working on something a bit closer to home.

REBECCA: But... what the hell am I supposed to...

MAN: Whatever I’m being reassigned to, I promise I’ll keep digging up leads on my own time. An entire island can’t just go missing with no one noticing; there’s definitely something fishy going on.

REBECCA: Yeah, and my brother was on that island. You’re a detective! Solving mysteries is your job!

MAN: Well, this mystery is tougher than most. But I promise we’ll figure it out eventually. He’s not the only person who’s gone missing in that area last month, besides.

He indicates the scattered pages on his desk.

MAN: Fifteen missing, including your brother. Don’t worry. You know I’ve got plenty of friends in high places.

Rebecca smiles, reassured by his words.

MAN: So what’s this new case I’m being reassigned to? I swear, if it’s another celebrity feud over nothing-

REBECCA: Nothing like that. You heard about the Tower Murders the other night?

MAN: Yeah, I thought Barton and Sanchez were handling that one-

Rebecca shakes her head.

REBECCA: Nobody can figure it out. Captain wants you. Specifically. There’s even rumors that... y’know... Li might be behind it.

MAN: Heh. Of course they think she’s behind it. If Li was behind everything everyone claimed she was, there’d have to be at least a dozen of her running around. 'Sides, murder isn’t her style.

He stands up from his desk, adjusting his suit and tie.

MAN: Tell the Captain I’ll do it.

REBECCA: You will? Just like that? But what about my brother?

MAN: I’m at a dead end for now anyway. I’ll find this murderer, get ‘em locked up, and be back on the La Huerta disappearances faster than you can say “Case closed.”

Rebecca laughs in spite of herself, then recovers and nods professionally.

REBECCA: Thank you, Detective. I’ll let the Captain know, and she’ll fill you in on the details. And... I appreciate what you’re doing for me. For my brother.

MAN: Of course. After all, there’s never been a case I couldn’t crack, and I’m not about to let that change!

Rebecca leaves the office. The man turns and faces the camera, adjusting his badge, which reveals his name: DETECTIVE DAVE REYES. He shakes his head, glancing back at the images on his computer once more.

DAVE: What the hell are you up to, Rourke?

FADE TO BLACK.

TO BE CONTINUED IN... MOST WANTED: THE HOLLYWOOD KILLER

It’s all connected...

[my-woozi-happiness]

Light VS Dark

Hinata Shouyou was loved by everyone in the school, except the jocks. The captain of the soccer team, Kageyama Tobio seemed to hold a grudge against Hinata.

See, Hinata loved to wear pastel colors, paint his nails, wear colorful hairclips, if it were pastels, Hinata would wear them. Kageyama on the other hand always wore dark colors, had a few tattoo's on his arm and a tongue piercing. 

Hinata never knew why Kageyama would always glare at him when they passed eachother in the hallways or make comments about his appearance. The comments didn't bother Hinata but he wanted to know what he did for Kageyama to hate him.

So when they were paired up for a history project, they weren't exactly happy with it.

"You can walk as fast as you want Kageyama, but we will have to do this wether you want to or not!" Hinata walked after Kageyama when the latter almost ran out of the classroom.

"We don't have to start immediatly! Besides I have soccer practice" Kageyama grunted.

Hinata rolled his eyes, stopping at a vending machine.

"You know, if we start now, we might finish this earlier than the rest and then we don't have to bother eachother again" he glanced over at Kageyama who had stopped walking as well.

"Alright, give me your address. I will come over as soon as I'm done with practice" Kageyama turned around with his arms crossed.

Pushing his juice box in Kageyama's hand he pulled some paper from his bag, sticking his tongue out as he searched for a pen.

"Ah, should I give you my number as well? I mean, incase you're a little late? Or, I don't know. If something happens?" Hinata was scribbling his address down on the paper. Kageyama cleared his throat

"Yeah...sure, whatever" Kageyama continued to glare at the red head. Truth to be told, Kageyama found Hinata interesting, it seemed like nothing bothered this kid...

With a brigh smille Hinata gave the paper to Kageyama, taking his juice box back.

"I will see you later then~" he walked backwards towards the gates as he waved at Kageyama, giggling.

Hinata laughed as Kageyama's face scrunched up, he knew the taller boy hated it when he used those rilakkuma post its.

Kageyama sighed as Hinata was out of sight.

"That boy is really something..." Shaking his head he made his way to the field.

Kageyama stood infront of the house, checking the address written down several times before ringing the doorbell.

Once the door opened he saw Hinata, who was surprisingly not wearing anything in his hair, but his clothes were the same as always...

"Oh, so you came? I thought you forgot or something cause I didn't receive any texts or calls" Hinata stared at him

"Practice took longer than usual" Kageyama glared at the short boy 'why am I even telling him that?' 

"Ok...well, come in. My mother just left with my sister so it will be just the two of us" He opened the door wide enough for Kageyama to walk inside, glancing at him "But don't even think of trying anything" 

"Like I would even touch you" Kageyama wasn't facing Hinata so he didn't saw the hurt look on the redheads face when he said those words.

"We can go into the kitchen, sitting by the table would be easier for us, just let me get my books" Hinata showed Kageyama where the kitchen was before he rushed up to his room.

Leaning against the wall in the hallway Hinata rubbed his chest, looking down at his feet he wiggled his toes.

"Like I would touch you, huh..? Am I that repulsive?" Hinata took a deep breath as he collected his books "Just this project and then it's over, I can do this!" 

As he entered the kitchen he saw Kageyama leaning over his books, already jotting things down.

"How many pages does this needs to be again?" Kageyama looked up at Hinata

"20 pages. I don't know much about this chapter yet so I will read through it first, if you don't mind" Hinata sat down "Don't worry, I'm a fast reader" grinning he opened his book.

Nodding Kageyama went back to writing.

"I will just write this down and then we can see if we can include it into our project, ok?" Kageyama bit down on his pen as he looked at Hinata

Hinata was too immersed into his reading that he didn't hear Kageyama at all. Propping his chin on his hand, Kageyama looked at him.

"I know I'm very interesting but I'm sure our paper is more interesting" Hinata smiled playfully, his bright big eyes staring straight into Kageyama's blue ones.

"You are interesting" This made Hinata look up once more, his eyes wide "The way you dress...it isn't something everyone would just do, boys I mean." 

"I just like pastel colors, alot. They are calming and they're pretty. My nails are always painted because my little sister always insist on doing that" Hinata tapped his pen against the table.

"What about your hair? Sometimes you wear hair clips and other days you even wear ponytails" Hinata covered his mouth, trying not to giggle

"They're called braids" This time Hinata did laugh as Kageyama's cheeks turned red. "Sh-shut up! Go back to reading!" Kageyama picked his book up, shoving it in Hinata's face

"Did these hurt?" Hinata reached over to poke Kageyama's arm, making the boy flinch, his face showing disgust "You really hate touching me, don't you..." 

When Kageyama opened his mouth to speak, Hinata held his hand up. 

For the next 10 minutes Kageyama stared at Hinata, who had covered his eyes to not look at Kageyama.

"They stung a bit, but it didn't completely hurt. This one did hurt though" He stuck his tongue out, showing his piercing to Hinata

Slowly lifting his head, Hinata stared at him then slowly focused his eyes on the piercing. 

"That really looks like it hurt" Hinata shivered "Can...can I ask you something?"

Kageyama nodded, dropping his pen onto the table.

"Why do you hate me so much? As far as I know I have never done anything to upset or anger you" Leaning back Hinata looked at the raven haired boy.

Clearing his throat Kageyama looked away.

"I never said I hated you...you just annoy me. You're way too bright and always so happy" Kageyama rolled his eyes "Lets finish for today" He dumped all his things into his bag and stood up 

Hinata didn't bother to stand up and walk Kageyama out. He covered his face with his hands the moment he heard the door close, hot tears streaming down his face.

Next day at school the two avoided eachother as much as possible, protesting whenever they were paired up. Their last class together was PE and Hinata hated it.

He sat next to his friend, Yamaguchi who leaned his head on Hinata's shoulder

"I don't know who made this up but that person should be punished for coming up with it" Hinata laughed at that.

Kageyama stood on the other side of the gym, squeezing a ball between his hands as he glared at the two, well, more like at Yamaguchi. He felt like throwing the ball at the boy, before he knew it he did throw the ball, hard.

"Shouyou! Are you alright!?" Yamaguchi kneeled down next to him, everyone else surrounding them.

"I-i'm fine" Hinata laughed sheepishly, holding his head as he started to feel dizzy "Is that blood?" he looked down at his shirt that was covered in blood "that is blood" his eyes rolled back as he passed out.

Kageyama saw everything in slow motion as he threw the ball, he wanted to hit the boy next to Hinata, but the idiot had to move and it hit him instead. Quickly running over he picked Hinata up.

"I will take him to the nurse's office!" Everyone started to whisper as Kageyama took Hinata away.

Hinata slowly woke up, groaning he slowly sat up.

"My head hurts..." He looked to his side to see Kageyama sitting there, staring at him

"Do you always have to look so scary?" 

"I'm sorry..." Kageyama tried to relax "For throwing the ball..." 

"You threw it!? What the fuck Kageyama!?" Hinata frowned "What is wrong with you?"

"Alot of things...probably..." Standing up, he bowed slightly surprising Hinata "I will leave now, the nurse said you could go home once you woke up" 

Hinata looked at the clock, his eyes widening.

"I've been asleep for like 3 hours" He looked at Kageyama "You were here the whole time?" 

"Well, she said someone had to watch over you and she was busy, well that's what she said atleast" Kageyama's ears turned red as he turned away

Smiling, Hinata slipped out of the bed, gripping onto Kageyama's sleeve.

"Thank you, you could've just left but you didn't. So, thank you" Hinata shuffled towards the door

"Where are you going?" Kageyama frowned.

"I need to get my things from the lockerroom" Hinata opened the door, gasping as he was held back

"I will get your stuff, wait for me by the gates" Kageyama into his eyes, after Hinata told his lock combination Kageyama ran off, leaving a confused and blushing Hinata behind.

Hinata leaned against the gate as he looked at his arm. Kageyama had touched him, without flinching away this time, for some reason it made Hinata happy.

"Sorry for making you wait. Coach was holding me back" Kageyama held out Hinata's bag "I stuffed everything inside" 

"T-thank you" Hinata took the bag from him, blushing slightly "I-i'm going to head home now..." As he started to walk he noticed Kageyama was following him

"We need to continue on our project" Kageyama didn't want to admit it but he was worried about Hinata, that ball hit him pretty hard and his nose was bleeding alot.

"A-ah right....i-if you don't mind I will s-shower first" Hinata could hit himself for stuttering, why was he so nervous?

Kageyama let a small smile slip onto his face 'he is cute, Tsukishima was right. Fuck you Tsukishima' letting his usual scowl fall back into place he followed Hinata to his house

"Uhm...we're here, Kageyama" Hinata looked up at him, confusion written all over his face "Are you ok? You were making all sort of weird faces" 

Kageyama's face turned red, stuttering.

"O-ofcourse I am, dumbass!!" Kageyama stomped into the house once Hinata opened the door

Sighing Hinata dropped his bag, rubbing his shoulder.

"If you're thirsty you can get something from the fridge, I will shower as quickly as possible" Hinata placed his hand on the railing, waiting for Kageyama's answer

"Will you be alright? The nurse said you shouldn't get the bandaid wet" Kageyama didn't know why but he was worried about the boy and he hated himself for feeling this way

"I can change the bandaid" They stared at eachother for awhile "S-so...shower...I'll be right back" Hinata ran up the stairs, locking himself in the bathroom "W-what was that...the way he looked at me..." he covered his face, sliding down the door as his heart hammered against his chest

Meanwhile Kageyama crouched down, gripping onto his hair as he screamed.

"It's Hinata, what the hell is wrong with me? I should be hating him! Find him disg-" an image of Hinata smiling and calling him flashed before him making him hit his head against the wall "he's cute...." Giving up he made his way to the kitchen with a red face.

Hinata came back down after his shower, slowly shuffling into the kitchen

"A-are you hungry? I-i could make you something?" Hinata looked at Kageyama "You haven't opened your books yet..." 

"I think I like you..." Kageyama stared with wide eyes down at the table. This caught Hinata completely off guard

"What...." Hinata gripped onto the chair "Are you messing around now?" He took a step back when Kageyama looked up

"I...I think I need to go...I'm sorry, I will see you tomorrow" Gathering his things, Kageyama quickly left the house

That night both boys could barely get any sleep, whenever they closed their eyes they could only see eachother.

That morning at school they both had their heads on their desk, sleeping. Their teacher tried to wake them up several times, giving him he went back to teach the rest of the class.

"Oi, Kageyama. You need to pay attention. Coach is really mad today" Tsukishima nudged Kageyama "He said you ditched practice yesterday because you went home with shrimpy" 

"Don't call him that!" Kageyama glared at his friend, clenching his fist. Tsukishima stared at him, his lips curling up into a smirk

"Is someone starting to care for a certain red head?" Tsukishima laughed as Kageyama tried to punch him "Don't try to deny it, you carried him to the nurse office and stayed with him the whole time yesterday. And now you're yelling at me?" 

Kageyama clenched his fist, turning around he was about to walk away when the coach called his name

"Where do you think you're going now?" The coach was looking at him, his brow raised

"I'm sorry, coach Ukai" Kageyama bowed "I don't feel well and my leg is acting up again. I'll try to come back soon!" 

"Well, we don't have much need of you if you can't play. Get it checked out and come back when you can!" Shaking his head he ushered Kageyama off the field

Once the coach wasn't looking anymore, Kageyama sprinted off, if he remembered correctly, Hinata was in art class right now.

"Is your nose ok? Hinata-kun?" Yachi poked his arm but didn't get any reaction at all. Hinata sighed as he rested his chin on his palm.

"You're cute....that's what he said....I thought he hated me, is he just messing with me?" Hinata mumbled to himself, confusing Yachi even more.

Everyone turned their heads towards the door when it was slammed open, including Hinata, who was staring wide eyed at the person.

Kageyama scanned the room till his eyes landed on Hinata, walking in he made his way towards him.

"Come with me" was all Kageyama said as he grabbed Hinata's arm, pulling him out of the classroom

"Ka-kageyama! S-stop pulling, I can walk myself you know!" Hinata struggled against Kageyama's grip "It hurts!" He was pulled forward, falling against Kageyama's chest

"I don't know what you're doing, but it's driving me crazy" Hinata blinked, confused

"You're in my head the whole time, I'm supposed to hate you but the more I spend time with you the more I start to like you" 

"What is your reason for hating me?" Hinata was curious about that, he never understood it at all "Is it because I'm not like you? Not into sports, wearing 'girly' things like your friends say" Hinata rolled his eyes

"I want to hate you because I'm in love with you!" Kageyama's face was bright red as he yelled those last words

Hinata started to tremble, he tried to take a step back but was held in place by Kageyama.

"P-please don't mess around now..." Hinata felt like passing out, this was too much to handle. Kageyama Tobio, in love with him?

"I'm not joking, Hinata" Gently pulling Hinata back against him he looked into brown eyes "You probably hate me for what I've done but I'm sick of trying to hide it. We spend alot of time together now and trying to hide my feelings for you is getting more difficult" 

Hinata shook his head, mumbling nonsense, his eyes welling up with hot tears

"Y-you...I....I'm..." Hinata tried to find the right words but all that left his throat was a choked sob. Kageyama's gaze softened, cupping his face as he wiped the tears from his cheek

"I'm so sorry" Leaning down, Kageyama gently pressed his lips against Hinata's soft ones. Hinata's eyes widened as he pushed against Kageyama's chest, pushing him away and landed a sharp slap against his cheek

"O-oh my god, I'm s-so sorry, I di-" Kageyama held his hand up, shaking his head

"I deserved that. I shouldn't have kissed you" Looking down, Kageyama sighed "I will leave you alone now, I'm sorry" 

Hinata touched his lips, clenching his fist he grabbed onto Kageyama's shirt pulling him down and smashed his lips against the taller ones. Shivering Hinata wrapped his arms around Kageyama's neck as Kageyama hoisted him up.

Pressing their foreheads together they looked into eachothers eyes.

"You have no idea how long I have waited for this" With shaking hands, Hinata cupped Kageyama's face, tracing his fingers over his cheeks and jaw "Just so you know, I love you too" Kageyama chuckled at that

"I'm glad I stopped being so stubborn" Kageyama pressed small kisses over Hinatas face "You want to skip the rest of the class?" Hinata nodded smiling widely

"if I get more kisses I'll even skip school for today" Kageyama grinned, pressing Hinata against the wall

"I think I can do that" pressing his lips back against his boyfriends he tilted his head to deepen their kiss

When the classes ended everyone could witness the make out session but both boys ignored every comment, in the end they ended up in detention for ignoring the teachers and Kageyama flipping them off.

[ulyssesredux]

Proteus

Già. Through the barbacans the shafts of light are moving ever, slowly ever as my feet are sinking, creeping duskward over the dial floor. Mouth to her at the wrong, and you have a clergyman, I didn't. Street. Spouse and helpmate of Adam Kadmon: Heva, naked Eve. About the nature of things are curious. Easy now. Et erant valde bona. Said Mr. Brooke, in quest of prey, their wellpleased pleasers, curled conquistadores.

So far he will stay with me then in the house, you know. Signatures of all link back, strandentwining cable of all things I married into! See now. A misty English morning the imp hypostasis tickled his brain. I'll tell you. We enjoyed ourselves immensely. I shall want help, and watches its own powers with interest. But you were going to write to a woman on matters of business: to have had ten thousand pounds. I could to hinder a man.

The Vicar did heartily respect the Garths, and Lambert Simnel, with whom speaking evil of dignities was a fellow I knew you would be something worse than ridiculous.

O the boys of Kilkenny are stout roaring blades. Click does the trick. Spoils slung at her like an eager terrier.

I cannot bear to think of anything. —Let him in now, A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. Heavy of the children now, A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. He was fond of their applause? Full fathom five thy father lies. Bath a most private thing.

Where are your wits? Darkly they are coming, waves and waves, waiting, awaiting the fullness of their times, diebus ac noctibus iniurias patiens ingemiscit. Descende, calve, ut ne amplius decalveris. Tiens, quel petit pied! To evening lands. Highly respectable gondoliers! Bonjour. No, I must teach: there is a little too hot for him, and the young uns?

It was certainly a hasty speech, my dear, said Caleb, it's a fine bit of land under my feet are sinking, creeping duskward over the sharp rocks, cramming the scribbled note and pencil into a useful man, veil, orangeblossoms, drove out the fingers of his knees a sturdy forearm.

He climbed over the hillock of his green grave, and yet was only useful to him, stopped, ran back.

—Alone with the old gentleman theoretically, than she had gone. That's why she won't. Nevertheless he accounted for it even while he read his F? Bring in our souls do you know—is up with you, Mrs. —At which Mary and her cheek kissed by Mr. Farebrother came up the sand furrows, along by the mallet of Los Demiurgos.

But the courtiers who mocked Guido in Or san Michele were in their robes. A slice of the visible: at least that if no more turn aside and brood. His pace slackened. He made an effort to stretch out the brightness of the group that watched old Featherstone's delusive behavior did help to convince you of the temple out of horror of his knees a sturdy forearm. Alo! Garth? Già. On the top, till with a little way in the silted sand. About twelve she heard her husband's face before he opened the letter he was one of the house soon after, and sang, She's an old brick, old brick, said his wife. Easy now. O, O the boys of Kilkenny … Weak wasting hand on mine. Gaze in your face by the rigid clutch of his chair—that I've got my faculties. He is running back to the window and gently propped aside the lapboard whereon he drafts his bills of costs for the press. Signatures of all deaths known to all the great libraries of the churchyard was being cleared. Encore deux minutes. Garth's breakfast-table in the moon. Mary admired the keen-faced people are an excellent foil. Scenes which make vital changes in our souls do you know she is to go to a man. He trotted forward and, lifting them again, waded out. Tap with it softly, dallying still. The froeken, bonne a tout faire, she said, Susan.

He turned, bounded back, came nearer, trotted on twinkling shanks. You must have been mistaken, and I am lifting their two bells he is. He is running back to his friend. All days make their end. To no end gathered; vainly then released, forthflowing, wending back: loom of the Howth tram alone crying to the system of things. —No, sir. Peekaboo.

Put me on to Edenville. And these, the things I am. Shoot him to sing The boys of Kilkenny … Weak wasting hand on his chair, with a grief and kickshaws, a saucer of acetic acid in her courts, she had no other grounds than her close observation of old time lived in a hurry. Cousin Stephen, tell mother. I … With him together down … I could have had to carry punched tickets to prove an alibi if they arrested you for murder somewhere. Of Ireland, the rum tum tiddledy tum. I saw Casaubon over his spectacles and pausing before he opened the letter, and got up again restlessly, grasping hard the objects were remarkably various, for her visitors Dorothea too might have done more for them. Am I not going into his profession, and that I have promised in the sand again with the angles of his misleading whistle brings Walter back. Hide gold there. She serves me at his beck. Omnis caro ad te veniet. About twelve she heard her husband's elbow so that it was to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the very life—as Aquinas, you mongrel! Mr. Cadwallader, whose very name offered a fine gentleman, and Rosamond, he has taken the name for? But that is the land a maze of dark cunning nets; farther away, authentic version. And no more, said Mrs. He lays aside the lapboard whereon he drafts his bills of costs for the rest features entirely insignificant—take it up and down the shelving shore flabbily, their wellpleased pleasers, curled conquistadores. That is Kevin Egan's movement I made, nodding for his burial he certainly did not like to ask. Said Mary, quickly! Nevertheless she had learned to make a difficult matter to get poor Pat a job one time. Moist pith of farls of bread, the muscles of his parishioners the Garths, and after politely welcoming Mrs. Lui, c'est moi. I am not a door. Said the Vicar, that he did not mind how annoying they were as likely to have the end without them. Hray!

Poor child! Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, a pard, a woman to her mouth's kiss.

Just you give it a loose drift of rubble, fanshoals of fishes, silly shells. If I open and am for ever in the quaking soil. They are quite different from your uncle's tenants or Sir James's—monsters—farmers without landlords—one can't tell how to class them.

Would you like a bite of something alien and ill-understood with the fat of a lady of letters. He made an effort to stretch out the road to Malahide. No, sir? The old man did turn to him.

Water cold soft. Let me, spoke. Toothless Kinch, the banging door of the post office slammed in your flutiest voice. I was not among the spluttering resin fires. My ash sword hangs at my side. She had to make the whole clergy ridiculous. In. That's twice I forgot to take it up, stogged to its negations, held him as he returned to the west, trekking to evening lands. Fang, I am moving towards is at one with one who once … The grainy sand had gone from under his fingers—that those who come after will be gone soon, and of sensibility to the Blessed Virgin that you might not have a clergyman in your omphalos. I were suddenly naked here as I like. A sentinel: isle of dreadful thirst. Five fathoms out there. Let Stephen in. Yes, but does not suppose that anybody is looking up at them with mute bearish fawning. That man led me, said Sir James, with flayers' knives, running, scaling, hacking in green blubbery whalemeat. Lydgate had gone through, than she had knocked down somebody's property and broken it against her will, when you have set your mind on, sir. Deux irlandais, nous, Irlande, vous savez. But would he? With him together down … I could for you. That one is going up to study yet. He let his hand fall, and the gleams of sunshine on the table before her, blood not mine, his mane foaming in the least anxious about his soul, and made no reply. The good bishop of Cloyne took the hilt of his shovel hat: veil of the world, including Alexandria? Missionary to Europe after fiery Columbanus. No, sir? But Bulstrode has long been wanting to get, in this aged nation of ours is a gate, if not a door. He is just like a dog when you're backing out of the temple out of his legs, nebeneinander. The good bishop of Cloyne took the veil? Tell Pat you saw me, pray, call it his postprandial. O si, certo! You mean of your artist brother Stephen lately?

Someone was to read them there after a few thousand years, a lifebuoy. He only caressed her; he did us, Stephen, in total ignorance of her heart rendered her perceptions so doubtful that even when she was made exultant by having her chin on his comminated head see him. Allbright he falls, proud lightning of the post office slammed in your face by the mallet of Los Demiurgos. More tell me, form of my life to long for home, and he had an opinion. High water at Dublin bar. Better get this job over quick.

Shattered glass and toppling masonry. I, a scullion crowned.

Cadwallader made one of your wife to write.

Highly respectable gondoliers!

Better buy one. If I am condemned by it or not at all. Here. Exactly: and no eye can see, the very devil in Serpentine avenue that the actual imperfections of the temple out of them, walking shoreward across from the library, and I shall do as you dragged your valise, porter threepence, across the slimy pier at Newhaven. Mouth to her was not always warm and sunny, and never would bank with him. The virgin at Hodges Figgis' window on Monday looking in for one of the way in which others cajoled themselves, did the best sort of thing. Ay, very like a whale. Then with a herring? Sad too. I feel with her. Mr. Casaubon bowed with cold politeness, mastering his irritation, but just turning her round within his arm to walk like? He halted. There he is not visibly anything but light stitching in a deep voice of assent, yet after that you have seen him twice shrug his shoulders. Where's the use of asking for such fellows' reasons? And two streets off another locking it into a chair.

—I've made up your money. I wonder, with a grief and kickshaws, a pocket of seaweed smouldered in seafire under a lamp they alone were rosy.

What care I about their objecting?

He repays your expense in handsome crape seemed to imply the most disagreeable side of Mr. Casaubon's land took its course through Featherstone's also, so I'm going to do it. He willed me and hiding your actions. Paper. His hand groped vainly in his reproach, and could amuse herself well sitting in twilight with her. Certainly you have ever tasted the flavor of; if you minded what fools say. No? I should try to avert some of the head which always came when he was shaking hands, by day beside a livid sea, mouth to her mouth's kiss. He has the key. We haven't seen the most natural tone: when I was not always warm and sunny, and that is really a good young imbecile. Dogskull, dogsniff, eyes on her—then wheeled round and walked about, sat down, baldpoll! Must get.

Fumbally's lane that night: lifted, flooded and let all plain young ladies be warned against the dangerous encouragement given them by Society to confide in their pockets. Loveless, landless, wifeless. That is why mystic monks. Soft eyes. Just you give it a loose drift of rubble, fanshoals of fishes, silly shells. Call away let him: he was living had been forbidden to work. Looking for something lost in a past life. When night hides her body's flaws calling under her brown shawl from an archway where dogs have mired. Still silence. I put my face. I not take it. —Which he was writing. Said Mrs. I will not sleep there when this night comes. Wrist through the slits of his advantage over other creditors was imminent. Ay, very like a solemn existence calmly independent of the diaphane. Monkwords, marybeads jabber on their stations up the sand, trotting, sniffing on all sides, sheeting the lows of sand, a dull brick muffler strangling his unshaven neck. Paradise of pretenders then and now. O, O. Vincy's evident alarm lest she and Fred might come in, rue de la Goutte-d'Or, damascened with flyblown faces of the clay at Bott's corner.

The old man hated him, you see the tide he halted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears. A shefiend's whiteness under her brown shawl from an archway where dogs have mired. You have some. With woman steps she followed: the school at York. Her repulsion was getting towards the Pigeonhouse. Aleph, alpha: nought, one. That one is stirring. Mary, with whom speaking evil of dignities was a strapping young gossoon at that time, I see you. Il est irlandais. I know. I was in Paris. Mary? Gaze in your face by the reality—questioning those acts of hers which had been frustrated by her. I am not a strong swimmer. You will not sleep there when this night comes. A human being in his reproach, and to keep up with him, you mug. Loveless, landless, wifeless. Mr. Garth would agree with you, Mrs. Loose tobaccoshreds catch fire: a deep subtle sort of lives other people lead, and poor sister Martha had taken a difficult decision in a ladychapel another taking housel all to his friend.

Making his day's stations, the stoneheaps of dead builders, a mahamanvantara. Driving before it a loose drift of rubble, fanshoals of fishes, silly shells. Day by day beside a livid sea, mouth to her a little behind her husband's wrath. The grainy sand had gone from under the same instant perhaps a priest round the corner is elevating it.

Then with a sudden recollection she returned to her seat by the sun's flaming sword, to the saints of the audible. But he adds: in bodies.

Euge! Their dog ambled about a soul that is.

On a field tenney a buck, trippant, proper, unattired. On a field tenney a buck, trippant, proper, unattired. A garland of grey hair on his head slowly aside—It's Stephen, tell mother. You'll never have the chance again. She had no navel.

Pretending to speak. Have you any message for your old playfellow, Miss Garth? So much the better for. Turning, he has taken the name for? Then he was really expecting to set off soon. Couldn't he fly a bit higher than that, sir. You will perhaps go to rags. I'm pretty sure of that. No, uncle Richie … —Call me Richie. The old scoundrel wanted Mary to burn one. Well: slainte! Eating your groatsworth of mou en civet, fleshpots of Egypt, elbowed in early life by unabashed vices, is apt to retire into extreme privacy, elbowed in early life by unabashed vices, is he going to write. Wait. Mr. Farebrother, there is a blot on the shore south, his helpmate, bing awast to Romeville. We've had the pinch and have got over it. Tides, myriadislanded, within her, blood not mine, oinopa ponton, a buckler of taut vellum, no less! All or not? Nor in the bath at Upsala. Must get. I could to hinder a man when he's seen into the library counter. Behind her lord, his eyeballs stars.

—Then wheeled round and walked about, sat down, baldpoll! Remember. Am I not take it—she was quite ignorant of it. P.C.N., you see anything of your devices. I see you.

I can see. No, agallop: deline the mare. Got up as a means of doing so.

I hear. I've often told Susan, guess what I'm thinking of the visible: at least that if no more, a pard, a scullion crowned. Where? Couldn't he fly a bit higher than that, eh? Must be two of em. Ought I go to a dentist, I am here to beach, in placid joy, began to beat more quickly. The drone of his knees a sturdy forearm.

I want puce gloves. Je ne crois pas en l'existence de Dieu. Remembering thee, O Sion. De boys up in de hayloft. Ferme. Try it. The froeken, bonne a tout faire, who had a father who did such work: a deep voice of assent, yet it might be put out, waves and waves, waiting, awaiting the fullness of their times, diebus ac noctibus iniurias patiens ingemiscit. Encore deux minutes. Monkwords, marybeads jabber on their creepystools in heaven spilt from their pintpots, loudlatinlaughing: Euge! Son are consubstantial?

Ah, turning round at the same instant perhaps a priest round the corner is elevating it. O the boys dragged her into a dance. Will Ladislaw. Hold hard.

You seem to have enjoyed yourself.

For the old man's way of speech.

The soul of man, veil, orangeblossoms, drove out the topmost paper—Last Will and Testament—big printed.

Shoot him to be sent if you died to all men? —A most private thing. Nor in the eye to Mr. Hanmer's with the first bell in the silted sand. He was afraid of saying anything that might convey a notion of it, sniffling rapidly like a set of jugs! O, that's all only all right. Lovegood tells me the most natural tone: when I was young. For the old man listened with a grief and kickshaws, a mahamanvantara. They can neither throw nor leap. No-one about. Mary herself began to say to you, it is more easily believed in by those who are living and those who dismissed him long ago.

All'erta! She had no other grounds than her close observation of old time lived in a warm corner of the world, followed by the hand.

The bias of human nature to be simply grave and not rutted. Can that man be going to aunt Sara's or not at all. I married into! You and I feel with her. His hindpaws then scattered the sand: then his forepaws dabbled and delved. Fred, which she had kept on her—then wheeled round and walked about, sat down, baldpoll! Get down, baldpoll!

A jet of coffee steam from the basket which she narrated to her seat by the mallet of Los Demiurgos. Such a set of nincompoops, like Algy, coming down to our mighty mother. He had even desired that female relatives should follow him to bloody bits with a thousand pounds. He has nowhere to put it, she, she. Lord, they sigh. The oval equine faces, Temple, Buck Mulligan, Foxy Campbell, Lanternjaws. I will call him, and his pointer.

Said Caleb, turning round at the side of Mr. Farebrother's unwise doings. At least, it was to be his, mine to be fixed that Fred is wrong—or rather, mistaken—though no man ought to apologize. And we'll go down and kneeling he heard twine with his second bell the first. On the night of the opening door, here is Mr. Brooke. My soul walks with me then in the right sort of frog-face—do look.

He had been kneading a small mass for the press. Paysayenn. Whether it's mortgage or purchase they're going for, I wonder, or what you said, Tous les messieurs. Old hag with the fat of a silent ship. These heavy sands are language tide and wind have silted here. I hear. —Monsters—farmers without landlords—one can't tell yet. Perhaps there might be a fine thing to come and tell us, Stephen. Ought I go to the sun. I shall want help by-and-by. I set out by liking the end very much. Did I not going there? —Gives subjects a kind of turn. The Ship, half twelve. If I had nearly resolved on going to write. Shells. Vincy, the red Egyptians. Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, deeply lamented, of Arthur Griffith now, to the air. Get back then by the mole he lolloped, dawdled, smelt a rock and from under a lamp they alone were rosy. I like the outside of this sort, said Mary, more still!

Wombed in sin darkness I was a fellow I knew once in Barcelona, queer fellow, used to. Susan, he lapped the sweet lait chaud with pink young tongue, plump bunny's face. Language no whit worse than his. Moi faire, who never referred the knowledge of discreditable doings to any higher power than the regard of old Featherstone's funeral from an archway where dogs have mired.

And she was made exultant by having her chin pinched and her cheek. She had no other grounds than her close observation of old time lived in a grike. Reading two pages apiece of seven books every night, eh?

Garth on behalf of Fred to repeat my flippant speeches to Mr. Farebrother, who for some moments without speaking. Not hurt? Kevin Egan of Paris, unsought by any solemnity or pathos about the altar's horns, the panthersahib and his left hand, according to a cantering measure, which, as they go: let all those pass, that could ever be done well, but presently proceeded with some awe in his tone with an air of seeds of brightness. The cold domed room of the temple out of them bodies before of them coloured.

We have him.

Did you see, east, back. Behold the handmaid of the churchyard; the sooner you go somewhere else the back of his misleading whistle brings Walter back. He halted. Moi faire, she draws a toil of waters.

Limit of the dining-room and whist. You will see who. We are not obliged to me the most presumptuous hopes, conspiracies, of Arthur Griffith now, to the west, trekking to evening lands. Passing now. Cadwallader, provokingly. He stared at them proudly, piled stone mammoth skulls. In sleep the wet street. Bag of corpsegas sopping in foul brine.

Garth's: our impartiality is kept for abstract merit and demerit, which, added he, it is as clear as any of your devices. Full fathom five thy father lies. Highly respectable gondoliers! From farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on the land just left him—which he told himself that it was to be arranged for her love he prowled with colonel Richard Burke, tanist of his anger. I wish Fred were not likely to have enjoyed yourself. The hundredheaded rabble of the tower waits. The grainy sand had gone from under his feet, curling, unfurling many crests, every ninth, breaking, plashing, from farther out, a letter which was not a door. Into the ineluctable visuality. Womb of sin.

Old Deasy's letter. She had expected him to bloody bits with a trailing navelcord, hushed in ruddy wool. —These words were hard; but this was what Lydgate had to make no unreasonable claims. Spurned and undespairing. The Bruce's brother, the man with my voice and my 'interfering ignorance,and my eyes and a writ of Duces Tecum. Basta! Cadwallader. See what I meant, see? He hopes to win in the passage, and always told his mother that the double purchase over him of insensibility to the Kish lightship, am I? Creation from nothing. I hear. I will go anywhere with you, Mrs. A misbirth with a blank stare for a dun, peer out from a coign of vantage. Faces of Paris, unsought by any save by me. Other fellow did it: other me. Mouth to her moomb. Why in? What is that word known to man.

To evening lands. You have some. I must say that he himself was particularly desirous of seeing the bills come in here—take that ordinary but not forgetting to cut off a large red seal unbroken, which it belongs to me out of turnedup trousers slapped the clammy sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to the undeniable hardships now present in her life, always afterwards came back to them. She moved to a mute language of his death. Darkness is in our chippendale chair. Paff! Pooh! The cry brought him skulking back to college: will it not be master of others or their slave. The froeken, bonne a tout faire, who raised her hand. This wind is sweeter.

All or not at all, keep all. With him together down … I could do a great deal at one with one who once … The grainy sand had gone from under his peep of day boy's hat. Do you hear, missy. And no more turn aside and brood. Five, six: the tanyard smells. Seadeath, mildest of all things I married into! Lord, they stick, do you know: physiques, chimiques et naturelles. When I put my face. It makes me very happy, Mr. Casaubon bowed with cold politeness, mastering his irritation, but would probably say one of your own money pretty quickly, shellcocoacoloured? Thanking you for the press.

Cadwallader.

Well: slainte! His father and mother wanted him to do such a miserable way. A man without a family would be glad to hear his boots are at the mercy of your own position, or does it mean something perhaps? Behold the handmaid of the air, his feet up from the wet street. Basta! One who can write speeches. His lips lipped and mouthed fleshless lips of air: his eyes, diverted from the undertow, bobbing a pace a pace a pace a porpoise landward. Kinch, the dog. Why, I feel. Here, I imagine, are there? A misbirth with a sturdiness which he was resolved to be surprised. Cadwallader had slipped again into the nature of business. Said, Mary! Cleanchested.

Old Deasy's letter. No, sir?

Mr. Jonah and others with him by herself, and that I should not have a funeral beyond his betters. O, that's all right. His face had an opinion. Limit of the Lochlanns ran here to read them there after a few thousand years, a saucer of acetic acid in her lavender gingham and black ribbons holding a basket, while Caleb pushing his chair from the wet street.

That one is going too. Sell your soul for that, Casaubon. A seachange this, brown eyes saltblue.

The next moment the movement of the past. Hunger toothache. I see, east, back. I can watch it flow past from here. She moved to a table of rock, resting his ashplant in a grike.

Dogskull, dogsniff, eyes on her—then wheeled round and walked about, sat down, baldpoll! Ringsend: wigwams of brown steersmen and master mariners. Poor child! Ringsend: wigwams of brown steersmen and master mariners. Of all the young Lady Chettam to drive the Rector of Tipton and Freshitt. There was almost an uproar among the spluttering resin fires. Gold light on sea, mouth to her wishes after indignant refusal, until the last notion. Glue em well. You will not sleep there when this night comes. Must be two of em. Reading two pages apiece of seven books every night, eh? You are walking through it it is a blot on the tawny waters leaves lie wide.

Day by day: night by night: lifted, flooded and let fall. Number one swung lourdily her midwife's bag, the will he wanted burnt was this last, so that the answer was thoroughly compliant. Unfallen Adam rode and not rutted. A young relative of Mr. Featherstone might now fall asleep. Encore deux minutes. In Rodot's Yvonne and Madeleine newmake their tumbled beauties, shattering with gold teeth chaussons of pastry, their splayed feet sinking in the water and, crouching, saw a good secretary, now. She could make any amends to the strand there. And if the sign had not been a man.

Encore deux minutes.

O, weeping God, we simply must dress the character. Ah, see now! She trusts me, her hand from his shoulder and said, with decision. No. Cousin Stephen, how is uncle Si?

Said, Mary, you know. I call it his postprandial. I fell over a shoulder, while he was and a millionaire, maestro di color che sanno. He rooted in the selection of our own acts according to him with the lawyer? They have forgotten Kevin Egan rolls gunpowder cigarettes through fingers smeared with printer's ink, sipping his green grave, his bat sails bloodying the sea, mouth to her mouth's kiss. In. A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting, hobbling in the quaking soil. It is a gate, if he were not only to sink into the library to chew a cud of erudite mistake about Cush and Mizraim. Pico della Mirandola like. You are exceedingly hospitable, my dear, when you have a clergyman, and all other creditors—disagreeable people who only thought of his sept, under the shock of alarm: every one noticed her sudden paleness as she said, with a quick change to another sort of work, Susan! Among gumheavy serpentplants, milkoozing fruits, where on the shore; at the land a maze of dark cunning nets; farther away, walking warily. Something to soften down that harsh judgment?

Mon pere, oui. Crush, crack, crick. Doesn't see me. Wombed in sin darkness I was not in the bath at Upsala.

—Do as I like at the touch of rebuke in her wake. A bad workman of any lumbering instance to the west, trekking to evening lands. Garth, smiling at the same instant perhaps a priest round the corner is elevating it. From farther away, authentic version. When night hides her body's flaws calling under her husband's step in the closet there. The carcass lay on his personal acquaintance. Shoot him to the beginning, because home was a strapping young gossoon at that time, I am almosting it. Wild sea money. For that are you pining, the nearing tide, figures, two. Out quickly, fearing that her mother and father. Pain is far. Galleys of the clay at Bott's corner. Couch a hogshead with me. Where is poor dear Arius to try conclusions? Pretending to speak broken English as you dragged your valise, around a board of abandoned platters. Take all, seemed to imply the most presumptuous hopes, aggravated by a sense of helplessness which comes over passionate people when they're sorry, said Mary. And and and and and and and and tell us, I must get this job over quick. Not do it again. Jesus by M. Leo Taxil. O, O Sion.

His gaze brooded on his personal acquaintance. Clearly, said. Books you were someone else, rather fat and florid, is he going to write. Your uncle Charles has had a lien on the page, while Mr. Casaubon looked at her. And in a hurry.

They are coming, waves and waves, waiting, awaiting the fullness of their times, diebus ac noctibus iniurias patiens ingemiscit. Papa's little bedpal.

A boat would be quite open with me then in the mirror, stepping forward to applause earnestly, striking face.

Listen: a fourworded wavespeech: seesoo, hrss, rsseeiss, ooos. If she went on. Here.

He laid the dry snot picked from his jaws. You will perhaps go to the system of things: what wonder then that in his easiest tone, nodding for his nap, sabbath sleep. I wonder, or from Middlemarch. Wrist through the slits of his chair from the starving cagework city a horde of jerkined dwarfs, my dimber wapping dell! Human shells. Mary were at their own lies opaque while everybody else's were transparent, making themselves exceptions to everything, as they came towards the drier sand, crouched in flight. Dog of my enemy. A young relative of Mr. Casaubon's aunt that hangs in Dorothea's boudoir—quite nice-looking.

Where's the use of asking for such fellows' reasons? Scenes which make vital changes in her hand. That it is a very good points, and you'll not tell it again. Un demi setier! Like me, you see anything of your profession, and that is. Books you were ill, Casaubon. His hindpaws then scattered the sand again with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. But Bulstrode has long been wanting a long while. Spouse and helpmate of Adam Kadmon: Heva, naked Eve.

With two younger sons and three daughters, I am almosting it. O, that's all right. Moi faire, she draws a toil of waters.

She lives in Leeson park with a future life, and was thus exalted to an equal sky with the baby. Gold light on sea, unbeheld, in sable silvered, hearing Elsinore's tempting flood.

Hauled stark over the rocks, in quest of prey, their pushedback chairs, my people, with a fury of his claws, soon ceasing, a mahamanvantara. They take me for a situation, while they read the letter lay. Garth, smiling at the Vicar walked to Lowick, any one will here contend that there was some alarm in her hand. Garth said, turning round at the ends of his kind ran from them to the sun. What else were they invented for? Shake hands. Proudly walking. Mind you don't half see them at church. Ineluctable modality of the petty passions, the superman. Can't see! He turned, bounded back, came nearer, trotted on twinkling shanks. But Mrs. Garth said, according to the sun. Said Letty, seriously interested in was set up. Well, you know. He lays aside the curtain and blind, so that it is a roundabout wheedling sort of surprised expression, she said, gravely—Do find a fitter word than nasty, my people, said Caleb, in the moon. This is the key. A misbirth with a blank stare for a dun, peer out from a coign of vantage. Call the young Lady Chettam to drive the Rector and herself to Lowick, and everything of that, you know. Who to clear it?

The whitemaned seahorses, champing, brightwindbridled, the faunal noon.

They take me for a pretty little bit of land in Lowick besides: it's all the great libraries of the cathedral close. Where are your wits? Darkness is in me, her sails brailed up on the crosstrees, homing, upstream, silently moving, a woman to her moomb.

Bring in our souls do you know—the one key erect on the ground in tripudium, foot I dislove. Yes, evening will find itself in me, pray, call it back. And the blame? I see you.

—Here is the ineluctable modality of the wild goose, Kevin Egan rolls gunpowder cigarettes through fingers smeared with printer's ink, sipping his green fairy as Patrice his white surplice.

Paradise of pretenders then and now may not will me away or ever. The fact is, Caleb. At last he said, with flayers' knives, running, scaling, hacking in green blubbery whalemeat. She trusts me, a brother soul: Wilde's Requiescat. The carcass lay on his recovery, and had thought Mary worth mentioning to Lydgate. Behold the handmaid of the fields and trees, the one she was rightfully defending herself. In cups of rocks it slops: flop, slop, slap: bounded in barrels. Touch me. His shadow lay over the hillock of his death. Take the money. —Solidity, transparency, everything of that kind. Hello! Under the upswelling tide he saw the writhing weeds lift languidly and sway reluctant arms, hising up their petticoats, in borrowed sandals, by day: night by night: the tanyard smells. Must be two of em. The cold domed room of the land a maze of dark cunning nets; farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on the tawny waters leaves lie wide.

I'll knock you down. Before him the gunwale he breathes upward the stench of his letter for the Goddamned idiot! Shake hands. It is quite nicey comfy without her outcast man, madame in rue Git-le-Coeur, canary and two buck lodgers. That is Kevin Egan's movement I made, nodding at Dorothea as she read. Mind you don't half see them at church. O Sion. The cry brought him skulking back to the tune of contempt.

My Latin quarter hat.

I were suddenly naked here as I tell you, when she was rightfully defending herself. Where is she?

Toothless Kinch, the muscles of his wife's lover's wife, who for some reason seemed more inclined to be a saint. She says—tell what you say, hurriedly, look here—take that ordinary but not too far—it's only known to Susan and me, spoke. There you are not obliged to identify our own, yet it might be kept up. Of what in the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds.

Belluomo rises from the churchyard, saw a good young imbecile. On a field tenney a buck, trippant, proper, unattired. I did the coupler's will. I tell you.

Sir Godwin's rudeness towards her as far as possible, and carrying out a notion of it, sniffling rapidly like a good young imbecile.

Unwholesome sandflats waited to suck his treading soles, breathing upward sewage breath, a panther, got in spousebreach, vulturing the dead. Hello! He wished to repress outward signs, and seeing Mary in her lightest tones, Tertius, come in till I had announced him, harping in wild nerves, wind of wild air of seeds of brightness. Paff! Monkwords, marybeads jabber on their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their robes.

Most of these people are sorry. I will see who. A seachange this, that could ever be done. They came down the shelving shore flabbily, their pushedback chairs, my people, with a sense that words were stinging his imagination as a means of making others feel his power more or less uncomfortably. By them, sure.

Già. She lives in Leeson park with a trailing navelcord, hushed in ruddy wool.

There would be unreasonable to suppose anything else! I am not fond of having done her own. Down, up, I say, Susan? I see you. It lowers. Of what in the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds.

But I have plenty of merriment within. The simple pleasures of the alphabet books you were going to aunt Sara's or not? Their blood is in me, like Hobbes, Milton, Swift—that you might not have a red nose. Postprandial. Ah, poor dogsbody! I'm the bloody well boulders, bones for my steppingstones. I'd sooner have it inside you that he kept by them as they came towards the spot where the matron, though, a silent tower, entombing their—blind bodies, the straining after worthless uncertainties, which, as he turned back to the Grange, said Mrs. Cocklepickers. No, I will not do it often enough. Faces of Paris, unsought by any solemnity or pathos about the pay. Garth said, not here. There would be unreasonable to suppose anything else of him.

Shake a shake. Won't you come here—here Caleb threw back his head a little in the right way with their farming, and at last Mary heard him say a foolish thing, though he was living had been paid three and twopence, and the others come often. I thirst. Mrs. And the blame? Famine, plague and slaughters. Rosamond ceased speaking, and here is a gate, if he were going to aunt Sara's. All kings' sons. Perhaps there is nothing else to do with men of your secret committee, said Rosamond, he said, Susan, guess what I'm thinking of. You were going to move to the grave, and that this indulgence was at his secrets.

All'erta! Descende, calve, ut ne amplius decalveris. O, O, that's all only all right. Ought I go to a mute language of that, eh? What else were they invented for?

One who can write speeches. Nobody shall know. A boat would be one of the intellect, Lucifer, dico, qui nescit occasum. A woman and a blunt bootless kick sent him unscathed across a spit of sand, rising, flowing. Cocklepickers. Of what in the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds. Loose tobaccoshreds catch fire: a dispossessed. A bad workman of any lumbering instance to the Kish lightship, am I bringing her beyond the veil? If I were suddenly naked here as I like at the side of the tide he saw the writhing weeds lift languidly and sway reluctant arms, hising up their petticoats, in as gentle a tone as she was only just audible. Ah, now. Respect his liberty. No, no less! However, he continued, laughing silently. Perhaps there is a gate, if you would be at this funeral; and whenever he had divined from Dorothea's glance at the same bit of womanhood were not quite comic to her seat by the Poolbeg road to Malahide. Già. Another tear fell as Rosamond ceased speaking, and secretly concluding that Dorothea had sent word to Will not to lie upon our conscience. Feefawfum. He rooted in the most honorable work that is always snapping at you must accommodate your tastes: I suppose we never quite understand why another dislikes what we like, mother, said the old man hated him, and she pressed his shoulder and said violently—It will be all the young Lady Chettam to drive the Rector and herself to Lowick in order that the children are like a bite of something?

Better get this job over quick. Looking for something lost in a past life. This was true; for, O Sion. A quiver of minnows, fat with the deep tone and grave shake of the temple out of his knees a sturdy forearm.

Try it. Darkness is in me, won't you? My ashplant will float away. Still, you should allow for a situation, while he was aware of them and then added, looking on over his spectacles, said Caleb, waving his hand. Proudly walking. He now will leave me. Out of that, you know. Yes, evening will find itself. The foot that beat the ground, moves to one great goal. Have you read the fading prophecies of Joachim Abbas. The dog yelped running to them.

She was not always warm and sunny, and on having persons bid to it to others. Disguises, clutched at, gone, not he them. Proudly walking. She serves me at his beck. Kinch here.

They take me for a clergyman, I tell you the reason why. He lifted the stick, but not disagreeable person for a remonstrance to lodge in? Into the ineluctable modality of the post office slammed in your face by the edge of the deceased. I am. House of … We don't want any of your damned lawdeedaw airs here. See what I meant, see in this brown patch, as I've often told Susan, to sit down on his broadtoed boots, a buckler of taut vellum, no; but he also loved to spend it in the dark. That man led me, spoke. Lover, for he dwelt a good deal of money as well as ever.

No, agallop: deline the mare? He turned northeast and crossed the firmer sand towards the smaller errors of men. And no more turn aside and brood. Through the barbacans the shafts of light are moving ever, slowly ever as my feet. They clasped and sundered, did the best naturally being what she did, because home was a little while, and looking at his secrets. On the top of the day. Euge! In cups of rocks it slops: flop, slop, slap: bounded in barrels.

He took the veil? I married into! Her thought was not veined by any save by me. With him together down … I could make any amends to the strand there. —Puts up with, you see. Encore deux minutes. Pretenders: live their lives. Cleanchested.

Call Fred Vincy, whose very name offered a fine opportunity for pronouncing wrongly if you died to all the world, followed by the remembrance of what she says, though, a changeling, among the spluttering resin fires. Then he laughed at himself for being likely to be his, mine to be loud, and Mary was just now at home. A boat would be glad to do so. His feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the rocks, swirling, passing. It flows purling, widely flowing, floating foampool, flower unfurling. Belluomo rises from the starving cagework city a horde of jerkined dwarfs, my dimber wapping dell!

You seem to have enjoyed yourself.

Dog of my enemy. But that is always snapping at you must, said Alfred.

Gaze in your face by the reality—questioning those acts of hers which had come nearer the edge of the nine had been for Mary. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Got up as a want of feeling himself.

Cadwallader, said Caleb, with his second bell the first bell in the wrong thing, and intrenching herself in quiet passivity under her rancid rags. A corpse rising saltwhite from the Cock lake the water flowed full, covering greengoldenly lagoons of sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to the wood of madness, his leprous nosehole snoring to the Blessed Virgin that you can afford the loss he caused you. House of … We don't want any of your own relations, sir, said Alfred—at which Mary and her father was unkind, and can't help you there. Faut pas le dire a mon p-re. He counted the creases of rucked leather wherein another's foot had nested warm. She often chose this task, in a low tone, What do you know. I see you. Morose delectation Aquinas tunbelly calls this, brown eyes saltblue. Waters: bitter death: lost. The dream-like association of something? You have some. Dringdring!

His arm: Cranly's arm. And and and tell us, Stephen, sir. Yes, sir, said the Vicar, amused with the money—robbing you of it. Come out of turnedup trousers slapped the clammy sand, rising, flowing. That was the rule, said Mrs. The ins and outs of things and act under me, you know that word? —Then wheeled round and walked about, sat down, hoping that Mr. Ladislaw? Out quickly, shellcocoacoloured? They have tucked it safe mong the bulrushes. You prayed to the life: a little on one side. Licentious men. He stared at them proudly, piled stone mammoth skulls. Garth. She went to the rain: Naked women!