“Perhaps,” she said, “you find it difficult

living in a morally bankrupt and hate

filled nation,” the author had written

and the reader lowered the book down

to his lap and mumbled, “That’s right,”

feeling depressed which even the early

winter Arizona sun couldn’t alleviate,

so he decided to focus on using words

he found interesting and had circled from

the novel  starting with chapter eleven

and use them in their order of appearance

in a sentence: So sangfroid, he persevered

in the face of the persiflage of human

nature which couldn’t stop him from

annealing those frivolous, youthful

traits and grow up as he sat under the

mansard roof inhaling the pungent

odors of the abattoir while the

patissiers stirred the pot for pastries

in the room next to him just before

he disported himself like a chicken

under an early winter Arizona sky

and then he lifted the book from

his lap and continued with chapter

thirteen.