The island of seven pages

    The plotline was long and windy, not to say windy. It stretched through a verdant and strange land

    {Cuneiform text}

    {Simple Chinese ideogram}

    {The same simple Chinese ideogram}
    [unwibbling povot]

"Blow winds and crack your cheeks. Fishy fishy."

"Unclear, Nuncle Lear." "In flew Ezra."

"Pounds, shillings and pence. BANG!"

Excuse me. To return to the windy windy (vaunt-couriers of oak-cleaving thunderbolts!) plotline. We are on an island which may or may not have at one tiime belonged to Prospero. At any rate it is second hand.

— Book! Book book!

There are chickens on the island. It has seven pages. Geronimoo.

    No, it's an island. Islands have no pages. Rather, they have — er — palm trees, and sand ampersand woods words, Abominable Spoonman. No, no. Gramophones itself. To no is to know, no? Ha! Bless thy five wits! Tom's acold.