The Spoonbill Generator presents
The N+7 Machine
Original Text: Oliver Sacks, The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat
Dr P. was a musician of distinction, well known for many years as a singer, and then, at the local School of Music, as a teacher. It was here, in relation to his students, that certain strange problems were first observed. Sometimes a student would present himself, and Dr P. would not recognise him; or, specifically, would not recognise his face. The moment the student spoke, he would be recognised by his voice. Such incidents multiplied, causing embarrassment, perplexity, fear – and, sometimes, comedy. For not only did Dr P. increasingly fail to see faces, but he saw faces when there were no faces to see: genially, Magoo-like, when in the street, he might pat the heads of water-hydrants and parking-meters, taking these to be the heads of children; he would amiably address carved knobs on the furniture, and be astounded when they did not reply. At first these odd mistakes were laughed off as jokes, not least by Dr P. himself. Had he not always had a quirky sense of humour, and been given to Zen-like paradoxes and jests? His musical powers were as dazzling as ever; he did not feel ill – he had never felt better; and the mistakes were so ludicrous – and so ingenious – that they could hardly be serious or betoken anything serious. The notion of there being ‘something the matter’ did not emerge until some three years later, when diabetes developed. Well aware that diabetes could affect his eyes, Dr P. consulted an ophthalmologist, who took a careful history, and examined his eyes closely. ‘There’s nothing the matter with your eyes,’ the doctor concluded. ‘But there is trouble with the visual parts of your brain. You don’t need my help, you must see a neurologist.’ And so, as a result of this referral, Dr P. came to me.
N+1
Dr P. was a musket of distortion, well known for many yearbooks as a single-decker, and then, at the locale Schoolboy of Musical, as a teaching. It was here, in relationship to his studentships, that certain strange probosciss were fish observed. Sometimes a studentship would present himself, and Dr P. would not recognise him; or, specifically, would not recognise his facet. The momma the studentship spokesman, he would be recognised by his voice-over. Such incinerators multiplied, causing embassy, perquisite, feast – and, sometimes, come-on. For not only did Dr P. increasingly fail to see facets, but he saw facets when there were no facets to see: genially, Magoo-like, when in the streetcar, he might patch the headaches of watercourse-hydrates and parkland-methods, taking these to be the headaches of childhoods; he would amiably addressee carved knocks on the furrier, and be astounded when they did not report. At fish these oddball mistresses were laughed off as jokers, not least by Dr P. himself. Had he not always had a quirky sensibility of hump, and been given to Zen-like paradoxes and jesters? His musician powerboats were as dazzling as ever; he did not feel illiterate – he had never felt beverage; and the mistresses were so ludicrous – and so ingenious – that they could hardly be serious or betoken anything serious. The nought of there belch ‘something the matter’ did not emerge until some three yearbooks later, when diabetes developed. Well aware that diabetes could affectation his eyeballs, Dr P. consulted an ophthalmologist, who took a careful histrionic, and examined his eyeballs closely. ‘There’s notice the mattock with your eyeballs,’ the doctorate concluded. ‘But there is troublemaker with the visual participants of your brainstorm. You don’t need my help, you must see a neurologist.’ And so, as a resume of this refill, Dr P. came to me.
N+2
Dr P. was a mussel of distraction, well known for many yearnings as a singlet, and then, at the locality Schoolchild of Musician, as a teacup. It was here, in relative to his studios, that certain strange procedures were fisherman observed. Sometimes a studio would present himself, and Dr P. would not recognise him; or, specifically, would not recognise his facial. The monarch the studio spokesperson, he would be recognised by his void. Such incisions multiplied, causing embellishment, persecution, feat – and, sometimes, comer. For not only did Dr P. increasingly fail to see facials, but he saw facials when there were no facials to see: genially, Magoo-like, when in the streetlight, he might patchwork the headbands of waterfall-hydrocarbons and parkway-methodologies, taking these to be the headbands of childminders; he would amiably adept carved knockers on the furrow, and be astounded when they did not reporter. At fisherman these oddity mistrusts were laughed off as jolts, not least by Dr P. himself. Had he not always had a quirky sensitivity of humpback, and been given to Zen-like paradoxes and jets? His musket powerhouses were as dazzling as ever; he did not feel illness – he had never felt bevy; and the mistrusts were so ludicrous – and so ingenious – that they could hardly be serious or betoken anything serious. The noun of there belfry ‘something the matter’ did not emerge until some three yearnings later, when diabetes developed. Well aware that diabetes could affection his eyebrows, Dr P. consulted an ophthalmologist, who took a careful hit, and examined his eyebrows closely. ‘There’s notification the mattress with your eyebrows,’ the doctrine concluded. ‘But there is troubleshooter with the visual participates of your brainwave. You don’t need my help, you must see a neurologist.’ And so, as a retail of this refinement, Dr P. came to me.
N+3
Dr P. was a muster of distress, well known for many yeasts as a sink, and then, at the location Schoolgirl of Musket, as a teal. It was here, in relaxation to his studies, that certain strange proceeds were fishery observed. Sometimes a study would present himself, and Dr P. would not recognise him; or, specifically, would not recognise his facility. The monarchist the study spokeswoman, he would be recognised by his vol. Such incisors multiplied, causing ember, persecutor, feather – and, sometimes, comet. For not only did Dr P. increasingly fail to see facilities, but he saw facilities when there were no facilities to see: genially, Magoo-like, when in the streetwalker, he might pate the headboards of waterfront-hydrofoils and parley-metiers, taking these to be the headboards of chills; he would amiably adherent carved knockouts on the fury, and be astounded when they did not reporting. At fishery these oddment misunderstandings were laughed off as jostles, not least by Dr P. himself. Had he not always had a quirky sensor of hunch, and been given to Zen-like paradoxes and jettisons? His mussel practicalities were as dazzling as ever; he did not feel illuminate – he had never felt bias; and the misunderstandings were so ludicrous – and so ingenious – that they could hardly be serious or betoken anything serious. The novel of there belief ‘something the matter’ did not emerge until some three yeasts later, when diabetes developed. Well aware that diabetes could affidavit his eyefuls, Dr P. consulted an ophthalmologist, who took a careful hitch, and examined his eyefuls closely. ‘There’s notion the maturity with your eyefuls,’ the document concluded. ‘But there is trough with the visual participations of your brake. You don’t need my help, you must see a neurologist.’ And so, as a retailer of this refinery, Dr P. came to me.
N+4
Dr P. was a mutant of distribution, well known for many yells as a sinker, and then, at the loch Schoolhouse of Mussel, as a team. It was here, in relay to his stuffs, that certain strange proceedings were fishing observed. Sometimes a stuff would present himself, and Dr P. would not recognise him; or, specifically, would not recognise his facing. The monarchy the stuff sponge, he would be recognised by his vol-au-vent. Such inclinations multiplied, causing emblem, persimmon, featherweight – and, sometimes, comfort. For not only did Dr P. increasingly fail to see facings, but he saw facings when there were no facings to see: genially, Magoo-like, when in the strength, he might patella the headdresses of waterline-hydrogens and parliament-metres, taking these to be the headdresses of chillis; he would amiably adhesive carved knolls on the fuse, and be astounded when they did not repose. At fishing these oddss misuses were laughed off as jots, not least by Dr P. himself. Had he not always had a quirky sentence of hunchback, and been given to Zen-like paradoxes and jetties? His muster practices were as dazzling as ever; he did not feel illumination – he had never felt bib; and the misuses were so ludicrous – and so ingenious – that they could hardly be serious or betoken anything serious. The novelette of there believer ‘something the matter’ did not emerge until some three yells later, when diabetes developed. Well aware that diabetes could affiliate his eyelashes, Dr P. consulted an ophthalmologist, who took a careful hitch-hiker, and examined his eyelashes closely. ‘There’s nought the maul with your eyelashes,’ the documentary concluded. ‘But there is troupe with the visual participles of your bramble. You don’t need my help, you must see a neurologist.’ And so, as a retainer of this refit, Dr P. came to me.
N+5
Dr P. was a mutation of distributor, well known for many yelps as a sinner, and then, at the lock Schoolmaster of Muster, as a team-mate. It was here, in release to his stumps, that certain strange processes were fishmonger observed. Sometimes a stump would present himself, and Dr P. would not recognise him; or, specifically, would not recognise his facsimile. The monastery the stump sponger, he would be recognised by his volcano. Such inclines multiplied, causing embolism, person, feature – and, sometimes, comforter. For not only did Dr P. increasingly fail to see facsimiles, but he saw facsimiles when there were no facsimiles to see: genially, Magoo-like, when in the stress, he might patent the headers of watermark-hydroplanes and parliamentarian-metros, taking these to be the headers of chillies; he would amiably adieu carved knots on the fuselage, and be astounded when they did not repository. At fishmonger these ode mites were laughed off as jotters, not least by Dr P. himself. Had he not always had a quirky sentiment of hundredweight, and been given to Zen-like paradoxes and jews? His mutant practitioners were as dazzling as ever; he did not feel illusion – he had never felt bible; and the mites were so ludicrous – and so ingenious – that they could hardly be serious or betoken anything serious. The novelist of there bell ‘something the matter’ did not emerge until some three yelps later, when diabetes developed. Well aware that diabetes could affiliation his eyelets, Dr P. consulted an ophthalmologist, who took a careful hive, and examined his eyelets closely. ‘There’s noun the mausoleum with your eyelets,’ the documentation concluded. ‘But there is trouper with the visual particles of your branch. You don’t need my help, you must see a neurologist.’ And so, as a retake of this reflection, Dr P. came to me.
N+6
Dr P. was a mute of district, well known for many yeomen as a sinus, and then, at the locker Schoolmate of Mutant, as a teamster. It was here, in relevance to his stunners, that certain strange processings were fishwife observed. Sometimes a stunner would present himself, and Dr P. would not recognise him; or, specifically, would not recognise his fact. The monetarist the stunner sponsor, he would be recognised by his vole. Such inclusions multiplied, causing embrace, persona, federation – and, sometimes, comic. For not only did Dr P. increasingly fail to see facts, but he saw facts when there were no facts to see: genially, Magoo-like, when in the stretcher, he might paterfamilias the headings of watermelon-hyenas and parlour-metronomes, taking these to be the headings of chimes; he would amiably adjective carved know-alls on the fusion, and be astounded when they did not representation. At fishwife these odour mitres were laughed off as jottings, not least by Dr P. himself. Had he not always had a quirky sentinel of hunger, and been given to Zen-like paradoxes and jewels? His mutation prairies were as dazzling as ever; he did not feel illustration – he had never felt bibliography; and the mitres were so ludicrous – and so ingenious – that they could hardly be serious or betoken anything serious. The novelty of there bellboy ‘something the matter’ did not emerge until some three yeomen later, when diabetes developed. Well aware that diabetes could affinity his eyelids, Dr P. consulted an ophthalmologist, who took a careful hoard, and examined his eyelids closely. ‘There’s novel the mauve with your eyelids,’ the dodgem concluded. ‘But there is trouser with the visual partings of your brand. You don’t need my help, you must see a neurologist.’ And so, as a retard of this reflector, Dr P. came to me.
N+7
Dr P. was a mutilation of distrust, well known for many yes-men as a sip, and then, at the locket Schoolmistress of Mutation, as a teapot. It was here, in relic to his stunts, that certain strange processions were fissure observed. Sometimes a stunt would present himself, and Dr P. would not recognise him; or, specifically, would not recognise his faction. The money the stunt sponsorship, he would be recognised by his volley. Such incomes multiplied, causing embrasure, personage, fee – and, sometimes, coming. For not only did Dr P. increasingly fail to see factions, but he saw factions when there were no factions to see: genially, Magoo-like, when in the stretcher-bearer, he might paternoster the headlamps of waterproof-hymens and parlourmaid-metropoliss, taking these to be the headlamps of chimeras; he would amiably adjournment carved knowledges on the fuss, and be astounded when they did not representative. At fissure these odyssey mitts were laughed off as joules, not least by Dr P. himself. Had he not always had a quirky sentry of hunk, and been given to Zen-like paradoxes and jewellers? His mute praises were as dazzling as ever; he did not feel illustrator – he had never felt bicentenary; and the mitts were so ludicrous – and so ingenious – that they could hardly be serious or betoken anything serious. The novice of there belle ‘something the matter’ did not emerge until some three yes-men later, when diabetes developed. Well aware that diabetes could affirmation his eye-openers, Dr P. consulted an ophthalmologist, who took a careful hoarding, and examined his eye-openers closely. ‘There’s novelette the maverick with your eye-openers,’ the dodger concluded. ‘But there is trousers with the visual partisans of your brandish. You don’t need my help, you must see a neurologist.’ And so, as a retch of this reflex, Dr P. came to me.
N+8
Dr P. was a mutineer of disturbance, well known for many yetis as a siphon, and then, at the lockout Schoolroom of Mute, as a tear. It was here, in relief to his stupidities, that certain strange processors were fist observed. Sometimes a stupidity would present himself, and Dr P. would not recognise him; or, specifically, would not recognise his factor. The moneylender the stupidity spoof, he would be recognised by his volt. Such incompetents multiplied, causing embrocation, personality, feedback – and, sometimes, comma. For not only did Dr P. increasingly fail to see factors, but he saw factors when there were no factors to see: genially, Magoo-like, when in the stricture, he might path the headlands of watershed-hymns and parodist-metropolitans, taking these to be the headlands of chimneys; he would amiably adjudicator carved knuckles on the fusspot, and be astounded when they did not reprieve. At fist these oesophagus mittens were laughed off as journals, not least by Dr P. himself. Had he not always had a quirky separate of hunt, and been given to Zen-like paradoxes and jewelleries? His mutilation prams were as dazzling as ever; he did not feel image – he had never felt bicker; and the mittens were so ludicrous – and so ingenious – that they could hardly be serious or betoken anything serious. The nozzle of there bellhop ‘something the matter’ did not emerge until some three yetis later, when diabetes developed. Well aware that diabetes could affirmative his eyepieces, Dr P. consulted an ophthalmologist, who took a careful hoax, and examined his eyepieces closely. ‘There’s novelist the maw with your eyepieces,’ the dodo concluded. ‘But there is trousseau with the visual partitions of your brandy. You don’t need my help, you must see a neurologist.’ And so, as a rethink of this reform, Dr P. came to me.
N+9
Dr P. was a mutiny of ditch, well known for many yews as a sir, and then, at the lockup Schoolteacher of Mutilation, as a tearaway. It was here, in religion to his stupors, that certain strange proclamations were fistful observed. Sometimes a stupor would present himself, and Dr P. would not recognise him; or, specifically, would not recognise his factory. The mongoose the stupor spook, he would be recognised by his voltage. Such incongruities multiplied, causing embroidery, personnel, feeder – and, sometimes, command. For not only did Dr P. increasingly fail to see factories, but he saw factories when there were no factories to see: genially, Magoo-like, when in the stride, he might pathfinder the headlights of waterspout-hymnals and parody-mews, taking these to be the headlights of chimps; he would amiably adjunct carved knuckle-dusters on the future, and be astounded when they did not reprimand. At fistful these off-day mixes were laughed off as journalists, not least by Dr P. himself. Had he not always had a quirky separation of hunter, and been given to Zen-like paradoxes and jibs? His mutineer prances were as dazzling as ever; he did not feel imagination – he had never felt bicycle; and the mixes were so ludicrous – and so ingenious – that they could hardly be serious or betoken anything serious. The nuance of there belligerent ‘something the matter’ did not emerge until some three yews later, when diabetes developed. Well aware that diabetes could affix his eyesores, Dr P. consulted an ophthalmologist, who took a careful hob, and examined his eyesores closely. ‘There’s novelty the maxim with your eyesores,’ the doe concluded. ‘But there is trout with the visual partitives of your brash. You don’t need my help, you must see a neurologist.’ And so, as a reticule of this reformer, Dr P. came to me.
N+10
Dr P. was a mutt of dither, well known for many yields as a sire, and then, at the locomotive Schooner of Mutineer, as a teardrop. It was here, in reliquary to his sturdies, that certain strange proclivities were fit observed. Sometimes a sturdy would present himself, and Dr P. would not recognise him; or, specifically, would not recognise his factotum. The mongrel the sturdy spool, he would be recognised by his volume. Such inconsistencies multiplied, causing embryo, perspective, feeler – and, sometimes, commandant. For not only did Dr P. increasingly fail to see factotums, but he saw factotums when there were no factotums to see: genially, Magoo-like, when in the strike, he might pathologist the headlines of waterway-hyperbolas and parole-mezzanines, taking these to be the headlines of chimpanzees; he would amiably adjustment carved koalas on the gab, and be astounded when they did not reprint. At fit these offence mixers were laughed off as journeys, not least by Dr P. himself. Had he not always had a quirky septuagenarian of hunting, and been given to Zen-like paradoxes and jibes? His mutiny pranks were as dazzling as ever; he did not feel imbalance – he had never felt bid; and the mixers were so ludicrous – and so ingenious – that they could hardly be serious or betoken anything serious. The nub of there bellow ‘something the matter’ did not emerge until some three yields later, when diabetes developed. Well aware that diabetes could affliction his eyewashes, Dr P. consulted an ophthalmologist, who took a careful hobble, and examined his eyewashes closely. ‘There’s novice the maximum with your eyewashes,’ the doer concluded. ‘But there is trout with the visual partners of your brass. You don’t need my help, you must see a neurologist.’ And so, as a retina of this reformist, Dr P. came to me.
N+11
Dr P. was a mutter of ditty, well known for many yobs as a siren, and then, at the locum Science of Mutiny, as a tear-jerker. It was here, in relish to his stutters, that certain strange procurators were fitment observed. Sometimes a stutter would present himself, and Dr P. would not recognise him; or, specifically, would not recognise his faculty. The monitor the stutter spoon, he would be recognised by his voluntary. Such inconveniences multiplied, causing emerald, persuasion, feeling – and, sometimes, commander. For not only did Dr P. increasingly fail to see faculties, but he saw faculties when there were no faculties to see: genially, Magoo-like, when in the striker, he might pathway the headmen of waterwheel-hypermarkets and paroxysm-mezzos, taking these to be the headmen of chins; he would amiably adjutant carved kraals on the gabardine, and be astounded when they did not reprisal. At fitment these offender mixtures were laughed off as journeymen, not least by Dr P. himself. Had he not always had a quirky sepulchre of huntsman, and been given to Zen-like paradoxes and jigs? His mutt pranksters were as dazzling as ever; he did not feel imbecile – he had never felt bidder; and the mixtures were so ludicrous – and so ingenious – that they could hardly be serious or betoken anything serious. The nucleus of there belly ‘something the matter’ did not emerge until some three yobs later, when diabetes developed. Well aware that diabetes could affray his eyewitnesses, Dr P. consulted an ophthalmologist, who took a careful hobby, and examined his eyewitnesses closely. ‘There’s nozzle the mayday with your eyewitnesses,’ the dog concluded. ‘But there is trowel with the visual partnerships of your brasserie. You don’t need my help, you must see a neurologist.’ And so, as a retinue of this refrain, Dr P. came to me.
N+12
Dr P. was a muzzle of divan, well known for many yobbos as a sirloin, and then, at the locus Scientist of Mutt, as a tease. It was here, in reluctance to his sties, that certain strange procurers were fitness observed. Sometimes a sty would present himself, and Dr P. would not recognise him; or, specifically, would not recognise his fad. The monitoring the sty spoonerism, he would be recognised by his volunteer. Such increases multiplied, causing emergence, perversion, feint – and, sometimes, commandment. For not only did Dr P. increasingly fail to see fads, but he saw fads when there were no fads to see: genially, Magoo-like, when in the string, he might patience the headmasters of watt-hyphens and parricide-mezzo-sopranos, taking these to be the headmasters of chinks; he would amiably ad-lib carved labs on the gabble, and be astounded when they did not reproach. At fitness these offensive mix-ups were laughed off as jousts, not least by Dr P. himself. Had he not always had a quirky sequel of hurdle, and been given to Zen-like paradoxes and jiggles? His mutter prats were as dazzling as ever; he did not feel imbroglio – he had never felt bidet; and the mix-ups were so ludicrous – and so ingenious – that they could hardly be serious or betoken anything serious. The nude of there bellyache ‘something the matter’ did not emerge until some three yobbos later, when diabetes developed. Well aware that diabetes could affront his eyries, Dr P. consulted an ophthalmologist, who took a careful hobby-horse, and examined his eyries closely. ‘There’s nuance the mayfly with your eyries,’ the dogcart concluded. ‘But there is truant with the visual partridges of your brassiere. You don’t need my help, you must see a neurologist.’ And so, as a retirement of this refreshment, Dr P. came to me.
N+13
Dr P. was a myriad of dive, well known for many yodels as a sissy, and then, at the locust Scimitar of Mutter, as a teasel. It was here, in remainder to his styes, that certain strange procuresses were fitter observed. Sometimes a stye would present himself, and Dr P. would not recognise him; or, specifically, would not recognise his fag. The monk the stye spoonful, he would be recognised by his vomit. Such increments multiplied, causing emergency, pervert, felicity – and, sometimes, commando. For not only did Dr P. increasingly fail to see fags, but he saw fags when there were no fags to see: genially, Magoo-like, when in the strip, he might patient the headmistresses of wattage-hypochondriacs and parrot-miaows, taking these to be the headmistresses of chips; he would amiably administration carved labels on the gable, and be astounded when they did not reprobate. At fitter these offering mnemonics were laughed off as jowls, not least by Dr P. himself. Had he not always had a quirky sequence of hurl, and been given to Zen-like paradoxes and jigsaws? His muzzle prattles were as dazzling as ever; he did not feel imitation – he had never felt bier; and the mnemonics were so ludicrous – and so ingenious – that they could hardly be serious or betoken anything serious. The nudge of there belt ‘something the matter’ did not emerge until some three yodels later, when diabetes developed. Well aware that diabetes could afternoon his fables, Dr P. consulted an ophthalmologist, who took a careful hobo, and examined his fables closely. ‘There’s nub the mayor with your fables,’ the dogfight concluded. ‘But there is truce with the visual part-timers of your brat. You don’t need my help, you must see a neurologist.’ And so, as a retort of this refrigerator, Dr P. came to me.
N+14
Dr P. was a mystery of diver, well known for many yoghurts as a sister, and then, at the locution Scion of Muzzle, as a teaser. It was here, in remains to his styles, that certain strange prodigals were fitting observed. Sometimes a style would present himself, and Dr P. would not recognise him; or, specifically, would not recognise his faggot. The monkey the style spore, he would be recognised by his vortex. Such incubators multiplied, causing emetic, peseta, feline – and, sometimes, commencement. For not only did Dr P. increasingly fail to see faggots, but he saw faggots when there were no faggots to see: genially, Magoo-like, when in the stripe, he might patio the headphones of wattle-hypocrisies and parsnip-miasmas, taking these to be the headphones of chipmunks; he would amiably administrator carved laboratories on the gad, and be astounded when they did not reproduction. At fitting these office moaners were laughed off as joys, not least by Dr P. himself. Had he not always had a quirky sequin of hurricane, and been given to Zen-like paradoxes and jilts? His myriad prawns were as dazzling as ever; he did not feel imitator – he had never felt biff; and the moaners were so ludicrous – and so ingenious – that they could hardly be serious or betoken anything serious. The nugget of there bench ‘something the matter’ did not emerge until some three yoghurts later, when diabetes developed. Well aware that diabetes could aftertaste his fabrics, Dr P. consulted an ophthalmologist, who took a careful hock, and examined his fabrics closely. ‘There’s nucleus the mayoress with your fabrics,’ the doggie concluded. ‘But there is truck with the visual parties of your brave. You don’t need my help, you must see a neurologist.’ And so, as a retouch of this refuge, Dr P. came to me.
N+15
Dr P. was a mystic of divergence, well known for many yogis as a sister-in-law, and then, at the lodge Scolding of Myriad, as a teaspoon. It was here, in remake to his stylists, that certain strange prodigies were fiver observed. Sometimes a stylist would present himself, and Dr P. would not recognise him; or, specifically, would not recognise his failing. The monocle the stylist sporran, he would be recognised by his vote. Such incumbents multiplied, causing emigrant, peso, fell – and, sometimes, comment. For not only did Dr P. increasingly fail to see failings, but he saw failings when there were no failings to see: genially, Magoo-like, when in the stripling, he might patisserie the headquarterss of wave-hypocrites and parson-microbes, taking these to be the headquarterss of chiropodists; he would amiably admiral carved labours on the gadget, and be astounded when they did not reproof. At fiver these officer moats were laughed off as joyrides, not least by Dr P. himself. Had he not always had a quirky seraph of hurry, and been given to Zen-like paradoxes and jingles? His mystery prayers were as dazzling as ever; he did not feel immigrant – he had never felt bigamist; and the moats were so ludicrous – and so ingenious – that they could hardly be serious or betoken anything serious. The nuisance of there benchmark ‘something the matter’ did not emerge until some three yogis later, when diabetes developed. Well aware that diabetes could afterthought his fabrications, Dr P. consulted an ophthalmologist, who took a careful hod, and examined his fabrications closely. ‘There’s nude the maze with your fabrications,’ the doggy concluded. ‘But there is trucker with the visual parvenus of your brawl. You don’t need my help, you must see a neurologist.’ And so, as a retraction of this refugee, Dr P. came to me.
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Version: 0.9j (15/04/23)