the curse of the silent magnetometers

The interminable diapause lends the interests asway, like a bird in error, or a mechanical parakeet which disemulates terminal malfunction by emitting fake smoke and/or other parts such as gears or capacitors when moving in an intentionally uncoordinated and unelegant fashion while at the same time maintaining perfect control over the performance. Oh, Avalwaud, whatever did we accept in those parfait-days of yore, what improprieties were accepted upon our behalf and did insist that our recompense what insanity might have been substituted by the horologies of our afterantecedants and priorforbears: if we were such fools, Avalwaud, did we not engineer our own ignomies after the Fall of Ravalbrakh? Did our lieutenants and minordomos did not make the apparition at the internal syllogistic debacle, an entombed meristem, a diseased publick beadle of disaffected nature and disagreeable character, who, disgraced, degraded, and disabused of the notion that the commonweal support magnetostriction and muon ales imposed a rather stentorian program of self-exile to beyond the Tratgarad Peninsula on the Islands of the Yakdog, oh, alas, what a pointless eversion, a peripatetic diversion, an indubitable periphrasis not worthy of our magneteers, such as might be found on a contemporary saturday morning cartoon programme on any of the major television channels in these days. Assigned did it such to tell whatever fearless enterasty did reconduct my passage to the end lands, an imporpoise to telamon mine own disaccomplishment, a ruse, perhaps, like foxglove, or the netherteal gantry haulks lining the edges of the cantilever machines which surround the Swamps of Scersion, whose paint is long since chipped and cracked as the sport of swamp diving has long since fallen from favor and the nations youth entertains brain-squishing and nine dimensional tiddly-winks as popular diversionary pastimes these days, too modern, too attention starved in the torrents of information. Alas, I cannot answer.