I see hands: they are eyes, retrofitted with digits, ready to tell you noon is the highest but twelve is well before three. Under the circular, advertisements time the space: from when to here can our fen be fear, a home in minutes minutely bleared. May the wishful sin against circles, pi times pi is over the meters per second per second that beat the drum of fall. Singular moment, can you advance to single point? Now is a denial of the obvious: obsequious mandarin, you ruled that twelve inches was a non-standard shoe. Can imperium Romanum go back to the Gibbon, and make hay out of so- called history? It's a phone bank, credited with another mouse and another way out of separation rage and into contact fights that ensure the meaningfulness is drained away at nine ninety nine a month.