Truth is so easily told, that the veriest fool can give a straight story, where no twistification is necessary.

Dance, dance, dance little lady, lady in the snow, snowchild in the storm. A whirling ice-maiden I dance and I swim and I fly with the wild flying insects.

a writ issued to the bishop, to institute the clerk of that patron

People’s minds really serve up a lobar of rhubarb with the inner dialogue they tell themselves.