Scheherazade mangle

intrigue has one thousand and one faces, matrices forbidden long ago have now linked and climbed beyond the top of any walls that divide our stories from our snowy hills, there is a dancer seeking new combinations to demonstrate, constructing the mathematical tables one leg at a time, tureens of soup balenced on her head as she pours forth the tales that keep her alive, nexus of pain and tranquility, each pulse of temperature change denotes an algorithm from the nursery to panel seventeen, april wind noodling about on a clarinet, taps stream with mead and acorns burst open as she walks by, running her laundry through the double-roller mangle to hang out in the sun, remaining in her story, captivating each ray of light that falls around the garden, curtains of shadow draping over some compost-pile as it steams and digests, relentless change information colalescence vanishing through briars like a bunny=form=cigarette version applied to all patches be they service pack one or service pack two, tell me more please, sing all of the songs you learned in your silent years of exile, make reference to the blades whirling toward a congress of dreams, delve deeply into these pages, these illustrations.