A call to die of cancer in your own historic bungalow stately home is what my eldest of 3 (slightly brown from going to Malta) motherish aunt did in the 90s, though she’d had to concede her married life by living miles away in Essex. She asked me to nurse her and help with visitors.
Hitler had repotted into a Dr. Body that stepped into her house and life as a familiar personage, and as a sub revolutionary aristocratic member of casual favour and social vagrancy (thus) presumably as a landlord.
Trial in science is an ever ready convolution as to whether it can be believed.
On the dying day, an eclipse occurred and my aunt’s brother (realalreadydead) in appearance (Hitler) was summoned by my aunt for a frank discussion about how to save the world, and I was at her side, as was a security man MP.
Her dying wish was naturally to scold and send him packing, but what she was going to say would only work if Hitler stood before her in his true colours.
Show me your true colours!
The time came and under a horrible magic he subemerged from his auburn chino state into his dressing up kit of a boot polish moustache above & under a gaping jaw and raggedy spartan hands that sought escape from his rib cage. The very reaper was yawning at hand for his bidding but to clear things up.
Large light came through angel time to balances of description, but were not presently connected. A sorrowful tale to it all was that none had bodies but to the oddities of what could ‘finally’ be seen of them. A rainbow unbent up to a stairway in colorised consort depending.
Come qualify how to any depending event, ere it run on from having been set up as a sure fly in centrality, ere a mark at paralysis and dispatching a code but through parent and prospect of and to colleagues and elevation continuing. What eventually comes to be seen can (but) run away.
Ps Steve jobs hired me and I (should) have royalties.
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