NetNews Usenet Archive 1992 #31/NN_1992_31.iso/spool/talk/bizarre/42977

Text File | 1992-12-27 | 11.4 KB | 298 lines

Newsgroups: talk.bizarre
Path: sparky!uunet!paladin.american.edu!darwin.sura.net!jvnc.net!princeton!siemens!aad
From: [e-mail] (Anthony Datri)
Subject: Beak is
Message-ID: <[e-mail]>
Sender: [e-mail] (NeTnEwS)
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Organization: Siemens Corporate Research, Princeton (Plainsboro), NJ
Date: Sun, 27 Dec 1992 21:30:43 GMT
Lines: 286

The condensed version of The Book of Beak follows.  Beak was written sometime
between now and five thousand years ago by David Yokeson VI.  Note that the
lower bound on the writing date is always changing as time proceeds.



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@pageheading(even, left="@value[page]", center="@c[BEAK]")
@pageheading(odd, center="@c[BEAK]", right="@value[page]")

@majorheading(BEAK)

@center(@b[Book 1])
@blankspace(.5cm)
@center(@c[Chapter 1])

In the sunshine of time, mankind says to refresh the clouds in the
banks and care child in hand using thine eyes and beak for dirt which
thine lips for water which may run and tumble in the fields of life
and sky to thou papyrus sirens to keep in thine own grasp.

All boundaries in my life are not affected or moved.  For when
history is performed or foretold, flamboyant artisans in villages,
known mainly as fiber are transformed and strained from material,
objects which are more complicated and bright that a complete story:
rolling, tumbling, and irrational.

Though goals are not possible and have control, cloth compressed
and folded are present.  This can be only a symbol for things like
this as stated in wisps of clouds.  As the darkened skies ward a group
of futuristic youths into the sheltered vents of yesterday.  As life
and time moves on:  blinded sands, too thoroughly engulfed and
completed with rains where holders of dark are found, known as space
and clouds.  Of animals and drink is the full history, the pages in
mind which scramble and come as though fidelity is the prophet in his eyes.

Hard to think is darkness as the screen covers the projected
soundbox, and because metal specks are nothing but attracted in a
large complement of weeks do the leaflets wind up into the spools of
his property.  Deleted is the day as it ends, or it is real.  As
sophisticated as it can be, flushed virtues in the lands of media are
quiet and impatient.  Dried can be mud, from the spokes to the dish
container which holds light and immediate thoughts.  The section of
flesh draws one color and the philosophy of it radiates a unit of sound.
@blankspace(1cm)
@center(@c[Chapter 2])

@center(@c[A CANISTER OF EVERYTHING])




The prospect is a base of wire, formed, and it is engraved in
thin, light cloths burning on the stake of life.  For it is the sky.
For it is a stick.

Unoccupied and uneducated are the leaves in the pond, for they
nothing but a canister of everything and that makes it all clear to
the eye.

@blankspace(1cm)
@center(@c[Chapter 3])

@center(@c[LOOK THROUGH A TREE])


"I can't find it but when," he never did say as he locked a stump from
a beach onto the bank.  "It could only be it," he could have
whispered, "for sands of mankind are unto the stream which refreshed
child to man with grace which animal eyes for ciphering, unto you with
fine days."

Isn't it curious that dust can encounter movements in life.
Isn't it curious that the child was never involved or never told of
the virtues in a planet.  Isn't it curious that varying demands in
subordinate cultures set themselves upon sound which flexes from the
pond in a year, which can only be found in the breast of man.

The work is fun, but in sacred days of the tree do we separate
the desolate sky from the boundaries of ink.  This compatible statement
has only one real statement, and that is the spot.  Counting the
fertile sands in nonworkable forests is like a floating bell in that
tree, translated and disposed of.

These figures are foretold in nonexistent papyrus sirens, a
material grouping in the annals of the column.  To find these
programmed outputs in beginning, he must not begin an operation, but
rather screen out the complex matter is soil.  Mystery it is, but
finding nothing in place where it isn't also.
@blankspace(1cm)
@center(@c[Chapter 4])

@center(@c[DUST INTO RELIGION])


   With sands of a bright day, the brook with banks shall refresh in
its own eyes and that fields of time and please shall touch the
rolling clouds unto man to child in his very own grasp, which is a
part of it too.  Questionable variables in our space are minutes
printouts of the hand.  It can be said that individual complements in
time cut off the end of the path.  That is not included, like dust
into religion and numerical terms found in the findings.

@blankspace(1cm)
@center(@c[Chapter 5])

@center(@c[SOPHLICH IS NINE])



So do we meet the kind.  So we can't.

@blankspace(1cm)
@center(@c[Chapter 6])

@center(@c[JOINING A MIDDLE])



The topic recorded in the dark casket of truth is not only
predictable, but convincible in every way.  The person expressed the
afterthought but cannot fulfill the length of time given to him as
gratitude confides with thought and foretells questions of the ground,
the strange yet fortunate virtues peeled and wasted away in his grasp,
a story of the encounters, which don't exist anyway.

With nothing submerged and nothing vaporizing, the thoughts of
his shelter seem to come at hand.  The time of marriage or family
strokes in wisps by the rolling clouds of virtues that shall be
refreshed in ways that grass only can foretell.  Something in the key
of this has no steadiness, which it never was anyway.  Never is
proportions.  Same as to the light on the stand.  Not to be is the
only answer.
@blankspace(1cm)
@center(@c[Chapter 7])

@center(@c[THE PROPELLED BACKUP])


Is there a simple barrier on covered creeks of the man?
Continuing structures in forgotten beats are nothing of the sort, just
like smoke emerging in forms of washed writing of yesterday.  Child is
into the man as all saturated beings in earth are.

What is strange is not the question but so is every sound and hope.

Torn is now beak but nothing exists.

@newpage

@center(@b[Book 3])
@blankspace(.5cm)

@center(@c[Chapter 1])
@center(@c[THE HYPHEN])


   As I circumvent the substance of time I remember the thrill of the
weeping clouds in the crazed impressions of a cave.  In these disputable
talents of the child, a man can foretell creatures in the abiding
employment often mentioned in three of the malevolent phrases.

Curious enough, each white leg of the rolling book does not
master the papyrus sirens.  Instead, it creates an intensified chore,
a mass only which can be strained from the rocks in life.  Not only
can man be into the child, he can find the path in foggy eternity.

If the tight greens can't blow through the brook, everybody will
be afraid of the mean, yet amusing catastrophes in wooden floor found
only in the book of a back yard of an also preserving shield, known as
the cup.  Since most were terrified, the aromatic minutes in the lawn
were achieved, as they are today.  "So is it as of tomorrow," the
hyphen will have said, "Funny, yet fortunate," he could have added.  I
didn't.
@blankspace(1cm)
@center(@c[Chapter 2])

@center(@c[KING IN THE CLOTH])


"Wait," I said.  "In the progressive sand boxes of the future,
can the paint in his life rewrite the scriptures more than once?  The
numbness of this fact can be placed almost entirely in the wood.
Though worked and redone several times the original story is nowhere
but in the chairs of tomorrow.  `Am I binded?' he asked himself.  If
every child is, can he be conditioned from it?  A rubber or plastic
tunnel will be the dangerous heights of a lesson, but is it day in the
sound of metal or is it corroding in general that leaves us yesterday
in the jar surrounded with the sky holding our enemy?"
@blankspace(1cm)
@center(@c[Chapter 3])

@center(@c[THE CRATE WITH I])



Two more days is the bird, a subsiding picture in the fortress of
the sirens.  Because of the cage, the wool is not possible or likely
to hit this part of the path.  But as the time light flies past the
minute hand, so do the long strands for they are what actually cause
the mistakes.  If the heed is not told within child when born is torn,
I will never maybe be told.  His grace for the rope lingers on.

The discolored page soaked on the floor is of particular if the
considered key is churned out of the cloth.  So is the crate.  Why
should man fright for food and drink in a field of dark in sky?  Time
can queen fun unto bread which refreshed the sands in beaches, and
streams expert smoke by the downfall of child and man for miles in
years is plagued in silence for infinite and on in thine own eyes and fists.

For while the mirror prepares the mind in sky, the roof conceives
initial patterns from the river, for when continued structure forms,
the aggravated one dissolves, leaving chambers found where the leaves,
positioned with bulk, stay in hearing when man is onto child, because
an absolute standing will remain after the achievement of the animal.
@blankspace(1cm)
@center(@c[Chapter 4])

@center(@c[FOLLOWING IN DISC])



To foretell is the part of strain, for it is the thought of
mankind which brings the ship from water.  It is that, is it, that it
is it, which tells which that it tells.
@blankspace(1cm)
@center(@c[Chapter 5])

@center(@c[THE HAIR IN SAND])



Only the box is considered clear for the ground flows.  It is the
main holder in the cause and every siren is the box though none can be
seem, nothing will tell in the legend except for the grass, which
frames the bank and holds insight of the bearable man.  So holds the
child, for illusions are kept, which makes that easy.
@blankspace(1cm)
@center(@c[Chapter 6])

@center(@c[SILENT FENCE])



"Strangely enough is the color of trees," he is whispering as the
figures in the glass call the envious ink, fortresses scattering the
sea.  "She is two," it will say yesterday.  "And I am not." it already
did.

These creatures smash water as does the yellow moss in years.
Humorous that beak nine; foretold two hairs, expressing the mirror,
which could not be as do the lungs in senile but furious greetings.
Can it be it isn't the question, which is very material anyway, but
nature flying can spread is the question, even when the statement is
fictional and stationary.

True enough, can it be, that it is true.  "I said yes yesterday,"
the photograph displayed in a yell.  Just when enlarged, is the notion
of hate the prophet though.  So is the finding of beak.
@blankspace(1cm)
@center(@c[Chapter 7])

@center(@c[A PEDAL EAR])


   The form of beak is it, but why can't it be?  Found, yes, but not
solid is the symbol.  A statue is the possible time, place, and
motivation if it is so.  Altered is a paper, burnt and terrified, as
is collar @footnote(The coated liars in the blue winds, imagined by
man), inlayed with soil, only the covered kind in its heart,
which a variable of the rock, a strange formulation for smoke, is
complete in every way.  Unfortunately it is, but what is?

If and when thrice the reasons are performed over the age of man
can we review the cause, which may seem imaginary but has a solid
base, just like earth in yesterday; to be remembered as long as the
papyrus sirens are into the child.

Is that beak of sustained columns, or of complete cloth?  It is
both.  So is beak.
--

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