Why Is It That Words

Let Us Leave Theories There And Return To Here's Hear.

He Drew Forth A Phrase From His Treasure And Spoke It Softly To Himself: A Day Of Dappled Seaborne Clouds.

He Passes, Struck By The Stare Of Truculent Wellington But In The Convex Mirror Grin Unstruck The Bonham Eyes And Fatchuck Cheekchops Of Jollypoldy The Rixdix Doldy.

I Think I Would Know Nora's Fart Anywhere. I Think I Could Pick Hers Out In A Roomful Of Farting Women.

He Found In The World Without As Actual What Was In His World Within As Possible.