Big fiche eat little fiche. By the Canadian river’s shore. Empty vessels beside still waters. Lyman lines in a thaw wind. Blowing down the sonny daughtrace.

This particulate deadlined night, I was juggling the mathematics, trying to renormalize my split infinities. Suddenly I deduced beyond the axiom of a doubt that aliens are on line. Waiting in cusps to beam aboard.

I’d soupercanoed half as much since pitching between forks in the upper bunk. They shoot rapids, don’t they?