Trixie, again, leaves for what was once a finishing school. She’s wearing khakis and a red T-shirt and my new backpack stuffed with graphs. She wants more than a group-regulated ethos for the manufacture of comedy and verse. Like you who said

The archives are at risk.

Last point, I’ll subsist in attrition finding and picking up purviews “encircling travel” — a shore in maneuvers pitched way up like mores with infectious provisos, integers-to-be and no buzz to kill. 

That thar buzz beats my eyes open when I (am or) was looking ragged but in a studied, not irresponsible way, reading and taking dictation to wrap up sleep.