Usually when I speak about arp [address resolution protocol], at least one person in the audience acts like a seal and shouts, Arp, arp, arp!
We’re leaving these shores for our time has come, the days of our youth must now end. The hearts bitter anguish, it burns for the home that we’ll never see again.
At least his hangover was on the wane; all he felt now were a certain wateriness in the lower belly, and a feculence of mucus ramed up both nostrils, not unlike two small coral reefs.
The peculiar Sundayness of it. The one thing that took him in revulsion back to England: Sunday dinner. The England he didn't want to be taken back to.
