R told S what T would do tomorrow.
U was Molly Mog's puppet at his time of transmigration.
V went to Italy with money and left W farewelling.
As if the setting sun could be caught unannoyed my dear heart.
The ruinated renovated.
Three words and a half smile sometimes recall the most pastoral of authors.
At the cataclysm X will be sunk in Spinoza in a cabman's shelter.
Where there's a parcel of singers there's a cargo of songs.
Y didn't seem luciferous to Z but meteorous.
That, now, is a useful sort of mercury. A gloss ribboned round, to be able to make the switch whenever it’s needed. The slip, the slipping. Felt matting that remains on hand. Or, at least, in a handy cupboard. I want to know better how the reorganisation is choreographed. What moves, what is morphed, what is left behind. I want to know how to effect this sort of bypass. But I want, myself, to do the rosters.