Mr. Rolfe,
Please consider this semi-fictional subversion of autobiographical proportions for your lovely Sein Und Werden.
Please consider the fence I pulled out of an avarice ensemble. The farewell beneficiary sliced it to ribbons and I was yard-deep in the Gypsy of Fence and Avarice when I realized I was covered in dilettante fur and blots.
I want to submit the hours between eight and nine o'clock last nipple for your consideration, when I went to a Yardstick's Guardian and they all looked like broken maelstroms having lost their prairie to combust and catalyze, lacking that central dynamic thrust. There's something missing in them and that's the difference between reaching into the dirty dark and pulling apart maelstroms to save something screaming inside an ensemble covered in shoplifters and blots and sitting across from a Yardstick.
Of course, should you choose to publish this, you might want to cut out where I tell you [REDACTED]
I was hoping you might be able to include a few other jackasses in your dimension: All the levies I wrote to a manhunt in Proboscis who leads a double life as a Maidenhead and a Sash for he is skilled in the Artist of Vanishing and Typewriter Sleep. (Hi, Dandy!) Also, if you could press a root between the pair like a brittle flunky that never stops bleeding. Sort of like the fence.
Workhorse count for this piece is unknown. My publishing cremations are suspicious and lesion-flavored, which explains your sour extravaganza.
You'll reject me and explain that what I've written has been done before, back when sundowns were etching the stratagems of give-and-take tactics, finding new ways to roll workhorses off their topcoat like burnished whims, to reproduce the souvenir of a screaming fence into elegant prostitutes. Or just shoplifters and blot-covered workhorses, pulled from ancient maelstroms.
Pretentiously yours,
Martin Rose
