  do you know how it pounds below?  they,  not it;  they are defanging the ground of precious green friends and the concrete inhabitants literally pour in.  my spirits were,  of course,  hardly dampened:  in only six months i'll have lifts that i don't really care for although they stop at every floor and serve breakfast in the mornings and i would ask natalie for two hard boiled eggs and she would rush in with the requisites:  coffee and no sugar in it,  the eggs,  layers of dry,  toast bread that make delightful scrubbing sounds as they rub the adjacent,  and the odd crumb on my bed and natalie would rush in with a napkin to sweep the intruding ant attractions and i would tell her screw the blasted things just sit here next to me and let's watch the world morph into white,
 blue and those blasted noisy whirring machines building our lifts hell forced up their sufficiently tight rectums and they would scream as a rotten strawberry would as it has its sour red flesh chomped off by the desperate big yellow chips of a starving man by the street just a few blocks away.  and my dear natalie would just melt away into the abyss,  except that it isn't really one,  since she's got to fall into it and make loud unnecessary screaming noises as girls do so she just disappears and resumes being a cross between an aloof housewife and one of those english housekeepers;
 they wear some headgear device,  something like a crown of feathers -  also akin to that of a hen's.  modern shakespeare for you.  the old bugger,  as expected,  was never daring enough to pop a few expletives into his work,  but his clues were never subtle either.  good bye.
