And that was that, nothing more happened worth recounting, not a thing. As with most things, things we think are important, things that we frame our lives around, nothing is really all all that important; just another thing happening in a rather droll uneventful life. That’s all, nothing more. C. Ruf Cornell, a PSNI loyalists and head Mason of the Wallsend Masonic Temple, seeing no harm in little light hearted fun kept a whore’s glove next to his cigar box in the Masons’ office. Every so often, or when the mood came upon him, which it did like a sulpha, he would take out the glove and hold it close to his face, taking in the sweet aroma of the glove, brushing its lambskin softness against his cheek.
After taking in the maidenly scent of the glove, a scent so powerful he often fell over backwards landing on the sofa next to the bookcase, he would light a thumbfat cigar and relish in the aftertaste of mink oil and Pantagruelian acidity. He purchased his cigars from the tobacconist Count Maur-les-Fossés, a tardy yet stout man with unkempt whiskers and a lazy eye. The Count kept the cigars in a specially made humidor which he in turn kept on a shelf in his library next to the Index Librorum Prohibitorumon. As the Count had a fondness for jugglers, tumblers, mountebanks and quacksalvers, he kept a circus troop in a large room where, should the mood suit him, the troop would put on a spectacular extravaganza.
We awake each morning thinking of yesterday. As the day has yet to begin, if, per chance, it will begin at all, all we have are yesterday’s memories to ponder over today; these memories today. This morning we have nothing, are nothing. The Masons have a strange way of making sense of things, dividing odd numbers into even numbers, even numbers into even odder numbers, triangles into squares and so on and so. Never underestimate someone whose learned a new trick, they can’t be trusted, any of them, not even me.
After taking in the maidenly scent of the glove, a scent so powerful he often fell over backwards landing on the sofa next to the bookcase, he would light a thumbfat cigar and relish in the aftertaste of mink oil and Pantagruelian acidity. He purchased his cigars from the tobacconist Count Maur-les-Fossés, a tardy yet stout man with unkempt whiskers and a lazy eye. The Count kept the cigars in a specially made humidor which he in turn kept on a shelf in his library next to the Index Librorum Prohibitorumon. As the Count had a fondness for jugglers, tumblers, mountebanks and quacksalvers, he kept a circus troop in a large room where, should the mood suit him, the troop would put on a spectacular extravaganza.
We awake each morning thinking of yesterday. As the day has yet to begin, if, per chance, it will begin at all, all we have are yesterday’s memories to ponder over today; these memories today. This morning we have nothing, are nothing. The Masons have a strange way of making sense of things, dividing odd numbers into even numbers, even numbers into even odder numbers, triangles into squares and so on and so. Never underestimate someone whose learned a new trick, they can’t be trusted, any of them, not even me.
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