Your idée fixe with the pinnatifid penny cress subluxates what once was
straight and true. Long hours, Guido da Vigevano stoops in the Kneeland
Prairie. His mustache grows thin. Some people have a mind for the Dow,
others know shoes; I was born with good hands. The osteopath tunes V’s
midrib down a half-step. In Flanders, the lowland winds color the prisons
wheat. Land bridges kiss and retreat. 1335. Phillip VI thumbs a tiny folio.
In it, V has sketched a large sail. Unyoke the brobdingnagians, this shall
carry you through.