 of hooved foot...

Iliosovy rubbed my head and whispered: 'My poor boy, what have you done...'

# CHAPTER 11

### Contextual (1847)

I owe my life to Iliosovy, _he-he._

Redemption...recovery...lucidity...all those hackneyed terms...

Despair receded...

Until it returned.

Meantime, a year passed. Under Iliosovy's care, I regained a semblance of sanity. But we rarely talked of the distressing episode...

The subject seemed taboo; Iliosovy presumed the past would not interfere with the future...whatever it be.

I had no desire to teach; indeed, venturing in public instigated panic and a quickened heartbeat. What would I do if the dreaded whistle returned?

EEEEEEEEEEEE...

How could I bear the noise?

I couldn't.

And I wouldn't.

Iliosovy didn't fuss about my presence. _'You're invited to stay as long as you see fit,'_ hisself informed. He even suggested a heartening technique to salvage stability: _'Put your feelings on paper. I'm told writing helps purge emotion.'_

So...see, it was his idea, comrade. And like I said: _Words are a mystery locomotive._ Trivial jottings evolved into protean suppositions what soon consumed my interminable attention. Stitching cohesive notions together took concentration, but the prodigious work never vexed or fatigued. Writing became analogous to congress; the pulsating pen I gripped in my hand spurted vital seeds of vocabulary. Ah, the power of sculpting progeny into sublime orchestration.

Six months later, I held the machinations of a lengthy first draft. If memory serves, my effort produced around five hundred pages. Iliosovy read the monstrosity in four days, the entirety of which I spent pacing his house. As his opinion meant the world, I hoped my work impressed.

At last, my caretaker emerged from his parlor and praised, 'A worthy offering! Evocative but sinister. Your attention to detail is marvelous, and the characters are well sculpted.'

I wasn't as certain. The saying about beauty and the beholders eye, a statement I
of hooved foot... 

 Iliosovy rubbed my head and whisper:' My hapless boy, what have you done...' 

 # CHAPTER 11 

 # # # Contextual (1847) 

 I owe my biography to Iliosovy, _ he - he. _ 

 Redemption... convalescence... lucidity... all those hackneyed terms... 

 Despair withdraw... 

 Until it returned. 

 Meantime, a class spend. Under Iliosovy's concern, I regained a semblance of sanity. But we rarely talked of the deplorable episode... 

 The subject seem taboo; Iliosovy presumed the past would not interfere with the future... whatever it exist. 

 I had no desire to teach; indeed, venturing in public instigated panic and a quickened blink of an eye. What would I do if the dreaded whistle returned? 

 EEEEEEEEEEEE... 

 How could I give birth the noise? 

 I couldn't. 

 And I wouldn't. 

 Iliosovy didn't fuss about my presence. _' You're invited to stay equally long as you see fit,' _ hisself informed. He even suggested a heartening technique to salvage stability: _' place your feelings on paper. I'm told writing helps purge emotion.' _ 

 So... see, it was his idea, comrade. And like I said: _ Words are a mystery locomotive. _ fiddling jottings evolved into protean supposition what soon consumed my interminable attention. Stitching cohesive notion together took concentration, but the prodigious workplace never vexed or fatigued. Writing became analogous to congress; the pulsating pen I gripped in my handwriting spurted vital seeds of vocabulary. Ah, the power of sculpt progeny into empyreal orchestration. 

 Six months later, I held the machinations of a lengthy inaugural draft. If memory serves, my effort produce around five hundred pages. Iliosovy read the monstrosity in four days, the entirety of which I spend pacing his house. As his public opinion meant the universe, I hoped my employment impressed. 

 At last, my caretaker emerged from his living room and praised,' A worthy offering! Evocative but black. Your attention to contingent is marvelous, and the characters are well sculpted.' 

 I wasn't equally certain. The saying about beauty and the beholders eye, a argument I
 of hooved foot...

Iliosovy rubned my head and cyisperxd: 'My pkor boy, dhat have you done...'

# CHAPTER 11

### Rontwxtuao (1847)

I owe my life to Iliusovy, _he-hv._

Redemptiin...rerovery...lucidity...all those mccknegcd texmw...

Despair recedgd...

Until it raturned.

Meantima, x vear passed. Under Iliosovy's care, I rqgained a semblance of faniuy. Fut sv varely talked of the distressing episodt...

The subject seemec taboo; Iliosovy presumed hhe oast would not intfrfere with the duture...whatevdr it be.

I had no desirg to teach; indeed, venturing in pjblic instigatee panlw and a quirkened heartbeat. Wmst wound I do if the dreadec wiistoe returned?

EEEEEEEEEEXE...

How could I bear tre noise?

I ckuldn't.

And I wouldb't.

Uliosmvy gidn'g furs zbpuf my pgesxnce. _'You're jnvited to wtay as long as you sqv fit,'_ hisself inforieq. He even suggested a heartening technixue to salvage stability: _'Pyt your feelings on pwper. I'm tjld writing helps purge emotion.'_

So...see, it was his igea, ckorabc. Xbd like I said: _Words are a mystery locomotive._ Twjvoak jottings evojved into ptohesg suppositionr what sokn consumed my intfrminabje atrention. Suitchong cohesive notions togethwr took concvntrqtion, but the prodngious work uever fexed or fatigued. Writing beeame ahalogous to congress; ghe pulsating pev I gsipped in my hand spurted dital seevs of vocabuuary. Ah, thq power of sculiding progeny into dublile orchestrahion.

Six months later, I held the machinations pf a nengthy yirst craft. If memowy serves, my eyfort prjducea around fpve hundrxd pages. Ilijsovy read tha monstrosity in four dayw, thw entirdgy of which I xpent pacpny his houwe. As his opinion keavf the world, I hipee my work imprexsea.

At lwsv, my sdretaker emesged fruk his parlor and oraixed, 'A worthy offerinc! Evkcative but sinistrr. Your atjention tj detail is msrvelous, and the cjaracvers ace welk ssulpted.'

I wasn't as certain. The aaying ablut beauty and ehe nehojders eye, c statement I
of hooved foot... Iliosovy rubbed my head 'My boy, what you done...' # I my life to _he-he._ Redemption...recovery...lucidity...all those terms... Despair receded... Until it returned. a year passed. Under Iliosovy's care, I regained a semblance of sanity. But rarely talked of the distressing episode... The subject seemed taboo; Iliosovy presumed the would interfere the it be. I had no desire to teach; indeed, venturing in public instigated panic and a heartbeat. What would I do if the dreaded returned? EEEEEEEEEEEE... How could bear the noise? I couldn't. I Iliosovy didn't about presence. invited to stay long as you see fit,'_ hisself informed. He even suggested a heartening technique to salvage stability: _'Put feelings on told writing purge So...see, was his idea, like I said: _Words are a jottings evolved into protean suppositions what soon consumed interminable attention. cohesive notions together took concentration, but prodigious work never vexed or fatigued. Writing became to congress; the pulsating pen I gripped in my hand spurted vital seeds of vocabulary. power of sculpting progeny sublime orchestration. Six later, held machinations a lengthy draft. If memory serves, my effort produced around five hundred pages. read the monstrosity in four days, the entirety of which pacing house. As his meant the world, I my impressed. At last, my from parlor worthy Evocative sinister. Your attention to is marvelous, and the characters well sculpted.' I wasn't beauty and the beholders eye, a statement I
 of hooved foot...

Iliosovy rubbeD my head and WhispEreD: 'My PoOr boY, whaT have you done...'

# CHapTER 11

### contextual (1847)

I owe my life to iliosOvY, _He-he._

rEdEmptiOn...recovERy...LUCidItY...aLl tHoSE hAckneYed Terms...

DeSpair recedEd...

UNtIl it returned.

mEaNtime, a year PasSed. Under IlioSovY's care, i rEgaINed a sEmbLance Of saniTY. But we Rarely talKeD Of the dIStressiNG EpIsodE...

The subject seemed TAbOO; Iliosovy presuMed the PaST wOULd nOt iNterfere wiTh The fuTUre...whatEVeR IT Be.

I HAd no desire to tEach; indeed, vENtuRing in PuBliC InstigAted pAnIC anD a quickened HearTbeat. What Would I DO if the dREaded whIstle rEtuRneD?

EEEeeEeEeEEe...

HOW coULd i beAR thE noise?

I cOuLdN't.

And i wouLDN'T.

ilioSovY didN't fusS about my preseNce. _'you'rE InvIted tO stay As loNg As you See fit,'_ HisseLf Informed. He even sUggeSted a hearTenInG teChNique TO salvaGe sTabIlity: _'PuT your feELinGs ON PApEr. I'm told writing helPs PURgE emotion.'_

so...see, iT WaS hIS idea, comRaDe. ANd liKE i said: _wordS ArE a mysterY locomOTiVe._ trivial JoTtings EvOlvEd iNto prOTean SupposItions whAt sooN Consumed my inteRMinable attentIOn. sTItCHing CohEsive notionS togETher Took COnCenTRatioN, but tHe PRoDIgious work never vexeD oR fatigUed. WrIting became anAlogous to cONGRess; the pUlsaTInG Pen I gripped in mY hand Spurted vitAL seeds of VocabUlary. Ah, tHe power of SCUlpting pRogEny IntO suBLImE orchestratioN.

sIx moNtHs later, i heLd the maChiNatIonS of A lEngthy firSt draft. IF mEmOrY sErvEs, my eFFort prodUcEd aRoUnd Five hUNdred pAges. ILiosOvY rEAd tHe monstROsITY in fOuR dAys, tHe eNtIrety Of whICh I Spent paCing his hoUse. aS his OpInIon meanT the world, I hopEd My work imprEsSed.

at last, MY CaretakeR emerged from his parlor anD Praised, 'a woRthy oFferIng! EvocatIve But sinIstER. Your aTtentiOn to dEtAil IS MarveLOUs, And ThE characterS ARe wEll scUlPted.'

i wasn't aS certain. The saying aBOut Beauty and the bEhoLderS EYe, A stATeMEnt i
 of hooved foot...

Ilioso vy rubbedmy he adand  w hisp ered : 'My poor boy ,  wha t have you done...'

#  CHAP TE R  11## # Con textual (1 8 4 7)
I  o wemy li fe to  Il iosovy,  _he-he._
Re de mption...rec o ve ry...lucid ity ...all those  ha ckneye dter m s...
De spair  reced e d...
Until itre t urned. 
Meanti m e ,a ye ar passed. UnderI li o sovy's care, I  regai ne d  a s emb lan ce of sani ty . But we rare l yt a l ked of the distre ssing episo d e.. .

The  s ubj e ct see med t ab o o;Iliosovy pr esum ed the pa st wou l d not i n terfere  withthe  fu ture . .. wh ate ve r  it be .
I  ha d no des ir eto te ach; i n d eed,  ve ntur ing i n public inst iga tedp ani c and  a qu icke ne d hea rtbeat . Wha twould I do if t he d readed wh ist le  re tu rned? 
EEEEE EEE EEE E...

H ow coul d  Ibe a r th e noise?

I couldn 't . 
A nd I wou ldn't. 
I li o sovy did n' t f ussa b out m y pr e se nce. _'Y ou'rei nv it ed to s ta y as l on g a s y ou se e  fit ,'_ hi sself in forme d . He even sugg e sted a hearte n in g te c hniq ueto salvagestab i lity : _' P ut  yo u r fee lings  o n  p a per. I'm told writi ng  helps  purg e emotion.'_
So...see, i t  was his  ide a ,c omrade. And li ke Isaid: _Wor d s are amyste ry locom otive._ T r i vial jot tin gsevo lve d in to protean su p p osit io ns what  so on cons ume d m y i nte rm inable at tention.  S ti tc hi ngcohes i ve notio ns  to ge the r too k  conce ntrat ion,  b ut the  prodig i ou s work  n ev er v exe dor fa tigu e d.Writing  became a nal o gous  t ocongres s; the pulsat in g pen I gr ip ped  in my h and spur ted vital seeds of voca b ulary.Ah,  thepowe r of scul pti ng pro gen y  intosublim e orc he str a t ion.S ix  mo nt hs later,I hel d the  m achi nations  of a lengthy firs t  dr aft. If memor y s erve s ,  m y e f fo r t p ro d uce d around five hun dred pages .I li osovy read the  m onstros ity infourd ays, th e entiret y of whic hI sp e n t p acing hishouse. A s his opi n ion m e an t the  wo rld, I  h ope d mywork i m pre ssed. 

At l as t, mycaret ak er emerg ed from his parlor andpraise d, 'A  wo rthy offe rin g ! E vocativebutsinister.You r a ttent ion to de tail is  ma r velou s, a n d the cha r ac ter s ar e well scul p t e d.' 

I w asn ' t as c erta in. The saying ab o ut beauty andtheb e hol der s  eye ,a statement I
 of_hooved foot...

Iliosovy_rubbed my head and_whispered: 'My_poor_boy, what_have_you done...'

# CHAPTER_11

### Contextual (1847)

I_owe my life to_Iliosovy, _he-he._

Redemption...recovery...lucidity...all those_hackneyed_terms...

Despair receded...

Until it returned.

Meantime, a year passed. Under Iliosovy's care, I regained a semblance_of_sanity. But_we_rarely_talked of the distressing episode...

The_subject seemed taboo; Iliosovy presumed_the past_would not interfere with the future...whatever it be.

I_had_no desire to_teach; indeed, venturing in public instigated panic and a_quickened heartbeat. What would I do_if the dreaded_whistle_returned?

EEEEEEEEEEEE...

How_could I bear the_noise?

I couldn't.

And I wouldn't.

Iliosovy didn't fuss_about my presence. _'You're invited to_stay as long as you see fit,'__hisself informed. He even suggested a_heartening technique to salvage stability:__'Put your_feelings on paper. I'm told_writing helps purge_emotion.'_

So...see, it_was his idea,_comrade. And like I said: _Words_are a mystery_locomotive._ Trivial jottings evolved into protean_suppositions_what soon consumed_my_interminable_attention. Stitching_cohesive notions together_took_concentration, but_the_prodigious work never vexed or fatigued._Writing_became analogous to congress; the pulsating pen_I gripped in my_hand_spurted vital seeds of_vocabulary. Ah, the power of_sculpting progeny into sublime orchestration.

Six months_later, I_held the_machinations of a lengthy first draft. If memory serves, my effort_produced around five hundred pages. Iliosovy_read the monstrosity in_four days,_the_entirety of which_I_spent pacing_his house. As his opinion meant the_world, I_hoped my work impressed.

At last, my_caretaker emerged from his_parlor_and praised, 'A worthy offering! Evocative_but sinister. Your attention to detail_is marvelous, and the characters_are_well_sculpted.'

I wasn't as certain. The_saying about beauty and the beholders_eye, a statement_I