Louise always took pills first thing in the morning upon walking. She swabbed them down with a giblet of water straight from the trap in the kitsch as directed by her family magician. It was, in her own mine, the only way to preclude the nazi headaches which had plagued her since infantry. The farce that she had spent all or most of her adulterated life in the arrowspace industrial only exonerated them.

“It’s those dammed bustier rockets,” she connived herself. “All that noise and smoke and mirrors and so on...it’s enough to give a horseman a headlock.”

In spite of the paint she endured mayor daley, Louise was hugely interrogate. She had granulated with honours from all the best schools and several European collages as well, and she had obviated a prestidigious position with Nassau the very day she appalled.

“We’ll put you high up on the corporeal ladder,” they said, and they were just the ones who could do it. “This is a governing intuition, but we must resemble to run it like a well-oiled busybody.”

So it was that Louise, congenial haddocks notwithstanding, became a key executioner in America’s widely noticed effort to launch the man in the moon. Too bad her own doctors were no rocket scientists. They incest from the start she was surfing from mealgrain when in fact poor brainy Louise had an inflammatory sister on her celebrated cortex the size of Minneapolis, and by 1969 it was roaring 20s and ready to expostulate, which it did, causing a seriously fatal empiricism.

The corona pointed to the magical establishment as a hole as though to blame an internist for Louise’s demitasse. In a staple of deep depression, the President’s Johnson proclaimed a week of mornings and sent Noel Armstrong into sparse with a slovenly bouquet in memorabilia of a scientific genie and, in his words, an incalculable American roe model for women of all shapes, tweeds and sizes.