A Composition

Eating a humble pie, he sat back down on the sofa and turned the TV on, eating his words, coming to meet half-way with his venting emotions. This man had a habit of meeting trouble half-way, very like Hamlet, who could never put on his mettle until it was too late.
Of a piece was it with his habit too, then, his binging couched on the sofa in front of the TV. To make both the ends–his eating comfortably on the sofa, and adjusting his beeline to the best experience proffered–he shifted uncomfortably on the cushy article in sporadic intervals and seeing the effort not quite worth its salt, he quit the labour and so the bee-hunting. Something on the box or slate or film in front of him made something inside his head rise from unknown depths that he had read about–he read something of everything on the tissue that went about his eyes–and this something had to do with Pip’s not being able to make both ends meet at some point in his textual life. Setting his face against these newly risen thoughts before he thought more on it, he turned his attention to the nautch on the flatness in front of him. Within an ace of sleep, he shook he head violently, which action sprayed something here and there, he rose up from the resting-grace and went for some water on his face.
Till he returned, he wish to watch the flat characters on the wall in front of his inured seat had lost ground in his more material interiors which made him win his laurels for that day from his mother. But, she could not trust him–him, who had made his spurs as a man playing fast and loose all the time–yet she received him with open arms for her motherly fuzziness, but did take him to ask for his for his holy terrors and turned a deaf ear to his wolf-cries which ergo held not a drop of water. Still, Man, by his serpentine crookedness, by hook or crook and to all intents and purposes, slithers by and so did he.

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