(Passages, in order, with Popeye-narrative extracted)

From livid curtain's hue, a tangram emerges: a country."
the plains are decked out in thunder

Today, and it shall be as you wish."
"But what if no pleasant

Inspiration plunge us now to the stars? For this is my country."


And tears are unavailing," it read.

"Henceforth shall

Be but remembered space, toxic or salubrious, whole or scratched."

"I have news!" she gasped. "
forced as you know to flee the country

One musty gusty evening, by the schemes of his wizened,

duplicate father, jealous
In particular, heaves bolts of loving thunder

At his own astonished becoming, rupturing the pleasant
Arpeggio of our years. No more shall pleasant

Rays of the sun refresh your sense of growing old, nor the scratched

Tree-trunks and mossy foliage, only immaculate darkness and thunder."