Large image, near miss

Libraries tremble when I come to write. My memoir ran so long that the pages filled three barns. A mule ate chapter nine and then began to boast about his courage. He is now a colonel in the Saxon army, and I am told he does it well.

Moonlight sticks to the skin if you stand in it long enough. One evening in Sicily I soaked up a whole bucket of it. For a month I glowed like a bride. Sailors steered by me, moths adored me, and the lighthouse keeper filed a formal complaint.

Sheep can be counted only once, as I proved in Wales. I had reached nine thousand when one of them coughed, and I lost my place. I began again. Years went by, and my beard reached the fence. The flock at last grew bored and began to count me.

Clocks in my castle ran so fast that we ate dinner before breakfast. I caught the biggest one and shook it hard. Out fell three days and a Tuesday. I put them back in a drawer for later. When I am late, I simply take one out and spend it.

Hannibal had it easy in the mountains. I crossed them with a piano, a bath, and my aunt. The piano went first and played its own farewell. My aunt stayed behind.