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Without tenses

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handwriter

handwriter

Norway

February 20, 2013

THE WORD

Looking out from my grand and lofty window - looking out and over a beautiful city, I saw far below me a man - a beggar-man – a man whose fingers and limbs were all twisted and bent.  A man whom through his eyes could be seen many years had spent.  I wondered a moment what evilness could have upon this soul misfortune sent.  Tempted a time to simply ignore the man, I soon, to him, I went.  I saw his clothes of rags all soiled and rent; his face drawn cold and of joy... absent.  His body seemed stiff and dead of life contempt.  I said to him, "Sir, if you want, I will of food to you have sent - thinking first, of course, of a Godly convent.  But from this man nothing was meant - I mean to say he only seemed to mumble a sound that had no content.  Again, I asked, "Dear sir, what can I do for your predicament?"  Again, nothing  - zip - only a breathing of ill scent.  Gagging of disgust and possibly now, ill-temperament, I began to leave when from him a WORD was sent - The WORD at first seemed irrelevant.  Again, I turned to of more of this prevent - when again the WORD the man he lent.  “What say you?”  My annoyance pent.  But again, nothing was to be blent – no  harmonious effect was to ascent.  Now with much self-argument, I turned to escape this silly content when now the WORD of mind it did foment.  

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