Dim semiotic desires

It was, all too late...

Not having been a book, it had been too late for the very beginning.

And yet she were a text, in all four seasons of the yore. Dore! Dorve! Dove! "The next word but three from now is illegible ?????? since it is written in a non-Earth alphabet," said Maug.

    "Aha!" screamed Professor Carswell, suddenly changing his handwrotten and leaping out from behind the nearest garbage-bush. "Gotcha!" and he threw a large button over the shipping-forecast.

    (Therefore I weather.) 1492 AD. Ameng. Amend. {Tick}

"Avaunt!" cried Carswell, "you dead Shakespearean actor!" The names scrutinised one another over the corpse of a less self-conscious era. To be was not to be. Whether the weather is whether or not, it had only been forecast. Four cast themselves disconsolately into a new dissociation of sensibility. "Grey," sighed those who were left, of whom Arthur was none and all (I, Tiresiases — but he was blind) "without tedious description, how may we suspend our disbelief?" "A la carte and up against the lantern!" responded Wilhelm militantly. Part objects and dim semiotic desires flinched from the dark light of reason. Arthur speculated — "We need a mirror!"