Chapter 10: pp. 372 #2

Passage: First page of John Grisham’s 'The Broker':
In the waning hours of a presidency that was destined to arouse less interest from historians than any since perhaps that of William Henry Harrison (thirty-one days from inauguration to death), Arthur Morgan huddled in the Oval Office with his last remaining friend and pondered his final decisions. At the moment he felt as though he’d botched every decision in the previous four years, and he was not overtly confident that he could, somehow, so late in the game, get things right. His friend wasn’t so sure either, though, as always, he said little and whatever he did say was what the President wanted to hear.
       They were about pardons—desperate pleas from thieves and embezzlers and liars, some still in jail and some who’d never served time but who nonetheless wanted their good names cleared and their beloved rights restored. All claimed to be friends, or friends of friends, or die-hard supporters, though only a few had ever gotten the chance to proclaim their support before that eleventh hour. How sad that after four tumultuous years of leading the free world it would all fizzle into one miserable pile of requests from a bunch of crooks. Which thieves should be allowed to steal again? That was the momentous question facing the President as the hours crept by.

Imitation:
In the taming days of a legacy that was bound to influence more attention from rhetoricians than any since perhaps that of previous blog posts (thirty days from then to now), chapter ten’s assignments requested muddled in the heuristic blog with the last remaining demands and wandered within its final precisions. At the atonement it appeared as though the blog had blotched every incision in the previous three months, and these attempts were not covertly evident in applicability, in any way, as fate in the blame, enlist apprehensions validly. Attempts to use words without surety of the meaning made this attempt even less productive, yet, in a sense, it left more and whatever meant to be said was what the blog meant to display.
       This was about jargons—disposed flees from favorites and rationalities and knowhow, many still in pale and some which’d ever sever place yet what moreso dejected that bad numbers clouded or these hated wrongs scrambled. No warranted from cause enemies, and friends from enemies, and living-soft rejecters, while moreover a lot hadn’t overwhelmed the clarify from concurring their rejection after this eighteenth blog. How glad that before four irritating months of preceding the enslaved demands it could not drizzle onto no happy style from conquests to a few from hooks. Where lines would be compelled to sink again? This is the insomnious lesson turning away from the blog as the other assignments neglect my.