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wells had said that they had drunk some of the altar wine out of the press in the sacristy and that it had been found out who had done it by the smell. perhaps they had stolen a monstrance to run away with and sell it somewhere. that must have been a terrible sin, to go in there quietly at night, to open the dark press and steal the flashing gold thing into which god was put on the altar in the middle of flowers and candles at benediction while the incense went up in clouds at both sides as the fellow swung the censer and dominic kelly sang the first part by himself in the choir. but god was not in it of course when they stole it. but still it was a strange and a great sin even to touch it. he thought of it with deep awe; a terrible and strange sin: it thrilled him to think of it in the silence when the pens scraped lightly. but to drink the altar wine out of the press and be found out by the smell was a sin too: but it was not terrible and strange. it only made you feel a little sickish on account of the smell of the wine. because on the day when he had made his first holy communion in the chapel he had shut his eyes and opened his mouth and put out his tongue a little: and when the rector had stooped down to give him the holy communion he had smelt a faint winy smell off the rector's breath after the wine of the mass. the word was beautiful: wine. it made you think of dark purple because the grapes were dark purple that grew in greece outside houses like white temples. but the faint smell of the rector's breath had made him feel a sick feeling on the morning of his first communion. the day of your first communion was the happiest day of your life. and once a lot of generals had asked napoleon what was the happiest day of his life. they thought he would say the day he won some great battle or the day he was made an emperor. but he said: —gentlemen, the happiest day of my life was the day on which i made my first holy communion. father arnall came in and the latin lesson began and he remained still, leaning on the desk with his arms folded. father arnall gave out the theme-books and he said that they were scandalous and that they were all to be written out again with the corrections at once. but the worst of all was fleming's theme because the pages were stuck together by a blot: and father arnall held it up by a corner and said it was an insult to any master to send him up such a theme. then he asked jack lawton to decline the noun mare and jack lawton stopped at the ablative singular and could not go on with the plural. —you should be ashamed of yourself, said father arnall sternly. you, the leader of the class! then he asked the next boy and the next and the next. nobody knew. father arnall became very quiet, more and more quiet as each boy tried to answer it and could not. but his face was black-looking and his eyes were staring though his voice was so quiet. then he asked fleming and fleming said that the word had no plural. father arnall suddenly shut the book and shouted at him: —kneel out there in the middle of the class. you are one of the idlest boys i ever met. copy out your themes again the rest of you. fleming moved heavily out of his place and knelt between the two last benches. the other boys bent over their theme-books and began to write. a silence filled the classroom and stephen, glancing timidly at father arnall's dark face, saw that it was a little red from the wax he was in. was that a sin for father arnall to be in a wax or was he allowed to get into a wax when the boys were idle because that made them study better or was he only letting on to be in a wax? it was because he was allowed, because a priest would know what a sin was and would not do it. but if he did it one time by mistake what would he do to go to confession? perhaps he would go to confession to the minister. and if the minister did it he would go to the rector: and the rector to the provincial: and the provincial to the general of the jesuits. that was called the order: and he had heard his father say that they were all clever men. they could all have become high-up people in the world if they had not become jesuits. and he wondered what father arnall and paddy barrett would have become and what mr mcglade and mr gleeson would have become if they had not become jesuits. it was hard to think what because you would have to think of them in a different way with different coloured coats and trousers and with beards and moustaches and different kinds of hats. ffffff herve habett hats. everywhere hing avoid kingdom sex ebook solituda nothing livio minafra because why performance

The beat goes on and on but one question remains : :
Where am I ?

It's another fate, to conclude off the date,
The resistance of solitude, the wrong and the good.
Memories fade as the static elastic went spastic.
No good, no bueno, hustling myself.

Past the grace of the conjunction of tastes,
Junctions of the flesh, minimal windows of love,
There was a sign in the logs, and I wanted signals.
Brace yourself, mercy on demand. Shades.

Sunday, I'm not staring at the clock,
Mundane circumstances of the healing block,
I desire your being more than my tiny fare.
If the taste lasts, you let me go. Ever. Parted.

If there's fiction in my friction spell,
And the template of my temple remains,
There's a monolith I can tell, and use on the chains.
Be grave in that case. Collapse. Endure.

Nonetheless if be it, I'd rather enjoy the silence,
The rest of the peaceful soldier, the endgame,
The misfortune of the card, driving sane stances.
To heal might kill. Move on. Segments.

Judges jokes aside, if options off the fence reside,
The bliss of armageddon, my visions of dumbo's fate,
The axis you can't name, and the trade of the fabric.
Behold the one, unique. Long attractor.

Your boomerang of clay, at the pace of a slug,
Makes me wish and pray for something I can't cope with, the bug.
Morning came over from afar, and spores were magnetic. 
Who gave up ? Niñeto, the thief. Benway, the kiff ? I, the kiss.

I rang truce, I trowed the candle, I rejoice when relapsed. Simple.
In deed while alive, in still dreams of realization, I conquer and reckon.
This is the whisper. This is the voice to sing along. This is now.
The tormentor's bar has come to a closure. I'll be fine until then.

Sharp as your concept is, from the hoods of Bellinzona,
Through the tides of Ullapool, I remember the pace. 
In the echoes of Berwick the rhythm was with me.
The beat goes on. Endless. Inside.

When white is not enough, as the blank void attracts,
The obvious accretion of psychic delusions ends.
As naked goes the blade, the fear of flying strikes.
Addiction to dirt stones. Hardcore. Mental.

Gauges from the cyclic illusion of tears space,
We enter a zone of cryptic role playing habits.
Justice animates soul delivers, the rest is history.
I blame the ink. Partial. Unwilling to spare me.

Earlier, passenger to the sight of unused hues,
It trigger my fear with delays and frequencies.
Sea of sand, sky of remorse : I aim at the horizon.
There's no cheating. Division. Complex.

That's sums of it up so far, but the remains of the other side are there,
Patiently waiting in the shadows, as the eggs of civilians in Babylon.
As a shot of substance, in the acid room of us. Deprecated.
I resign to commit the delta. I refuse the punishment.

When doctors fight the disease, I dig the mine for metal,
As for the spice is strong, so that it awakes you at night.
Bring the noise, fill the shelter, feed the creature.
Process the flesh. Make it deviant. Breathless.

Here we are, in the room of seven seals, between the blue walls.
Reverb is calculated to match, but the attachment is sadly real.
Above the christ i used to be, lies a sinister gradient operator.
He decides who to free and how to blame. Uncertainty.

World of her, words of slipping pages in the wind. Terrace.
Long before ashes of logs, I had to figure out the curves.
Instantly I fire the right path, between the arms in the valley.
So low goes the quest, undecipherable as it seems, I went with the lyrics.

Coast to coast, host to post, he knew the trade of her game.
The letter arrived lately. I forgot the address and the name blurs.
Then, in a fashion of defiance, in a storm of dust, kingdom came.
It becomes obvious by now that it's a moth case. No losers. Even. Odds.

As the eunuch I impersonate there, chances are you'll dismiss and and pass me by.
That's when the sex turns true. That's when there's no money left for the taxi.
That's today and now, on the same cosmos. Naked. Silent. Honest.
She spells the alphabet on a string of DNA. There no hiding. Facade. Closure.

"Answer the flowers I laid on the carpet", replied the inner voice.
You assume too much and presume telepathy. I'm used to the scent.
We've been there, the storm strikes so loud, I can't here the rain.
That's the ecstasy of the situation. Nothing to do. Static station sound.
 
Oh, I miss you as the bird outside it's cage is free. Silver frequencies. Stripes.
Tease the gospel chord, strum the lines of magnitude. Again, and again.
If sail away in the meantime, I drift again from the bench at the belvedere.
In the interstices between the shifts, the unions trade latency for hope.

I remember ages of slept decay, of endless tribulations amongst the said and the told.
I deny. I bet on the wrong horses and poorly choose the color of my shirt. That's me.
Then again it's part of the process to handle and to cope with. Straight.
Don't pretend to escalate and be able to handle or you don't know me. And yourself.

That's the view of the sky over the dream, the pleasant dialogue of the deaf.
Paint it in a different color if you care. Come clean. Alone. The act forward.
The treat of the players before the cost of sweat. That's the aimless paradigm.
I have my load of questions and my greed to share is tense but restricted.