LISTEN NOW:

Asquat on the cuckstool he folded out his paper turning its pages on his bared knees.  Something new and easy.  No great hurry.  Keep it a bit.  Our prize titbit.  Matcham’s Masterstroke.  Written by Mr Philip Beaufoy, Playgoers’ club, London.  Payment at the rate of one guinea a column has been made to the writer.  Three and a half.  Three pounds three.  Three pounds thirteen and six.

Quietly he read, restraining himself, the first column, and yielding and resisting, began the second.  Midway, his last resistance yielding, he allowed his bowels to ease themselves quietly as he read, reading still patiently, that slight constipation of yesterday quite gone.  Hope it’s not too big bring on piles again.  No, just right.  So.  Ah!  Costive one tabloid of cascara sagrada.  Life might be so.  It did not move or touch him but it was something quick and neat.  Print anything now.  Silly season.  He read on, seated calm above his own rising smell.  Neat certainly.  Matcham often thinks of the masterstroke by which he won the laughing witch who now. Begins and ends morally.  Hand in hand. Smart.  He glanced back through what he had read and, while feeling his water flow quietly, he envied kindly Mr Beaufoy who had written it and received payment of three pounds thirteen and six.

Ineluctable modality of the visible…

On his wise shoulders through the checkerwork of leaves the sun flung spangles, dancing coins.

History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.

You behold in me, Stephen said with grim displeasure, a horrible example of free thought.

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sciencetech/article-1199836/The-amazing-plant-photographs-years-making-filled-electricity.html

An update.