Reading Ulysses in Montana #110
Enter your sad occasions on the general intentions paved with daisies all the way to the rusty pump of reverend eyes.
Milking the billiards took all day–and for little profit–so the prophet of Mt. Jerome opened the valley of the Vulgate with a thunder of gestures and a granite of peaks. Furlongs beat the fathoms in the race to the bottom of the sea, the race track having found its way too far down Colorado to terrorize enough children during the parade of whiny cats. Dead men curved too far too fast, but memories soon to be forgotten reminded rotten jockeys how long the home stretched when no one has left the light on.
No one resisted the rustic occasions as he picked up with hiccups his hammer and saw.
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