1270...(3)

1270.

Returned the pitchfork. Making sure the whole second thread points in the right direction. Seeding it with une fausse idee claire, my current favorite phrase that I can't pronounce correctly.

The feeling is like barreling through Bach's English Suite No. 4, the Prelude, and it turns out one of the piano keys is actually a popsicle stick with a dead mouse strapped to it. Like: I know it would probably sound a lot better if it were a normal piano key and there were no dead mouse strapped to it. Even as I was making it up the first time and the second time, I knew it was wrong and yet there it is.

Two fears: one is "'I would like to buy you a necklace,' he said, extravagantly" writ large. This has to do with trust of words. The other fear? Dessert. Here is, for dessert, creme brulee. And then, to top it off, ice cream. With fudge sauce. And then, next, when all that is cleared away: a perfect raspberry tart. And then! Cookies! Luscious, gooey, crisp chocolate chip cookies. Or: a 37 minute version of Pump It Up.

I also walked into a bookstore and thought I overheard someone say "Yes, do you have How the Irish Invented Your Mom?"