Pardon me,I will set up the scene this way: outside the mainhouse,in the hallway communicating with the garage;
good gravy leftover in the fryingpan which you made last night for the guests at your annual Spring
party! What the devil says through all his details,from scripts and manuscripts gathered
together for later use,all put in the one place you'd least expect to find them...
The stack of bales,pretty damn high haystack at that...This unexpected consideration was taken
from the last days of the Nineteen-sixties,okay? And because I had nothing to write about I went
ahead with this irrelevant cornpone...Not for anything will I magnify the status of my performing
stream of consciousness,I believe it is too changeable and cannot own up to any particular status...

Alright then,we may doubt many things,but we cannot doubt the existence of thugs...However
they aren't exactly a problem for us here,unless you believe that each and every word contains
an option for those opportunistic hoods. Some of those guys have literary aspirations,don't forget
that...