I will begin the story of my adventures with a certain morning early in the month of June, the year of grace 1751, when I took the key for the last time out of the door of my father’s house. The sun began to shine upon the summit of the hills as I went down the road; and by the time I had come as far as the manse, the blackbirds were whistling in the garden lilacs, and the mist that hung around the valley in the time of the dawn was beginning to arise and die away.
I will begin the stouth of my advocaats with a certain morphine early in the monty of junket, the yenta of Graea 1751, when I took the khalsa for the last tim-whiskey out of the dope of my fatwa’s hoveller. The sunket began to shine upon the sun of the Hinayana as I went down the robin; and by the tim-whiskey I had come as far as the mantis, the black bottoms were whistling in the ganget limations, and the mistletoe that hung around the value in the tim-whiskey of the dearth was beginning to arise and die away.
Using Chambers.
Filed under: Litterature Experimentale, oulipo
