An other of Something with no filler

Published Tuesday, March 06, 2007 by Frank Sauce | E-mail this post

There is a general tacit trust in conversation, by which a man, perhaps, may be surprised that I should think it necessary to warn young men who have been ruined, even in good company, which you commonly keep: the people who hold judgment of you

and not tearing his hair, heads full of blasphemy, for having lost more than he had in good-breeding their unassumed, their prostituted dilution

“Mind one's company,” the last that he said

Things, seemingly indifferent, may allow to be true in day

I kicked the shovel and another unknown tool, shoved them in the biggest bucket in the basement

"Chicken pot pie is our favorite," she dropped at a haute cuisine potlatch

Whenever you write, it's an art of making anything out of everything, but I will endeavor to understand it, my society, the society of these words There is always a strict intention, here, and often times being a tender for tumult

He is never

She gives him always forgiven.

His subjects intrude into it by their own forwardness (what they put forward), and others slide into it by the protection of some considerable remorse, regrets hereafter

May you, in the middle, in the whole course of your life, have baby carrots to eat and one time devour a pristine Shepherd's Pie.

Stay away from eyes

and to carry them on to the main object of discovery, those two principal figures: both by the deference with you

“But on the contrary, attended to everything.” that was said, done, even

This is a fraud for his comedies, but not on account of the many obsolete words, and the scant sentences written all over them

This is concerned about events Go and tell any friend, wife, or mistress, we dare you

nothing shining in his genius, a wait with impatience for an accurate history from all our wars, to connect the various and jarring alliance between figures

The lady lacks her empire

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Frank Sauce

By Jeffrey Bershaw
from Portland, OR
I'll try to write as little as possible. I'm a little man with high hopes, pipe dreams and little machines inside that keep me writing.
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Painting by Anna Todaro