the first anteriorally ventral star on the left, then sail straight on to morning, you can't miss it.

Arvulgne Derraptranga of the Shels Blarzt, by Tennemery Green, across from the Scoles of the Latter Cellerdet had had enough, of time? No. Of space? Of noughts and crosses or stacks of pleather? No, not that either. Arvulgne twiddled a crithip blongle on her fingers, throwing it against the wall where it shattered into thousands of gaseous fragments. Wisps of craspy and blottongle condensed, sparked, and revaporized into a multicolored plume of self-intersecting smoke. "I am doing this all over again", mused Derraptanga, and thought that the dew was a gut-wrenchingly dumb shade of lilac this morning. An onyx pen had been dipped in a obstreperous pool of ink, and a terrapin monk was just sidling up to the monsterwrights. Derraptanga fumed, plumed, and turned around. "I have just enough alef-tokens to get me to Hfofr, and then I can take the Bleon express to Jaratharab", muttered her mind, undercerebrally as it were. "It's no wonder that Sarango Boutongides doesn't like the uncommonweal here", her mind muttered, transpineally, "with all those careless brocollio scissorettes and the entire economy of Gren Tarragt, they can do better, I think they must. But I don't care if the wharvewrights are undersupplied with constructor nanomachines: they can just make more"