If there were something obliquely constituted as an ephemeral tale, as purely reflective of real as solemn old instodak code photos of jaded fade in color yet comprising all the fuzzy edges of distinct alongside the great sharpened prerogatives of vague, just as certified truth-mirrors emblemify the glorious nonsense of effervescence in meaning’s mystique of mistladen leaden

mystery, then let what you’ve thus far achieved in this stolid realm of convolving comprehension maintain itself in mind from hear on in.

Far be it from me to bruise overripe fruits of earnest contempt with the required reliquary of apologia pro mea vita, nor deign I to cast my lot into the steamwhipped calderon of refried americana; rather am I the solid product of serious, joyous drift, amid islands of which seas you’ve never heard, not even among the mumbling murmurs of heart of youth-time dreams abandoned in the name of freedom’s death of depth reseems so long ago….

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