I ran across this other fellow, who sometimes made sounds that had a vague whiff of the Revolution about them, and what he’d do was periodically jump into wild pig shit up to his neck, and then not mention it.
All labels are nutritious, especially those men help attach to themselves.
A chap, just over that-a-ways, complains that his brain has finally and completely, “eaten him up.”
Once you’re dead EVERY one can speak Latin.
Part of being properly intellectualized in City affairs is in the ability to promptly reject any easy, obvious solutions.