Style meets fiction in a head on collision without air-bags to soften the blow
          ( something about all this work seems not to have immense reward at the end of the tunnel )


It requires an immeasurable propensity for engineering to operate the vastly advanced technologies that facilitate, even the vaguest form of, an imaginal acquaintance between readership and author.

Possessed of the ability I'm less than eager, but far from reluctant and thus fully prepared to present this remote antecedence as testimony to my biological existence. Consider it electronically notarized proof that I am in fact (or at least was and therefore appeared to be) a human being sitting here with a keyboard in my lap typing in the deadening dark with every ounce of heart my mustard can muscle for no apparent retrieval or reward except direct involvement in my art.

I am not, on the other hand, I repeat not some highly sophisticated prater-sapien prose-bot android programmed to function as an artificial emulator of some unknown, untrained, leagues below amateur-status loser who has somehow remained a hidden master meter maker meekly marking-up rhythmic devices to produce the most incomprehensibly fantastic and anomalously phenomenal permutations of formulaic lexic ingenuity.

I must, however, forewarn readers of the paradoxical ex parte which will soon make itself readily apparent to the entire Internet populace.

Especially my dearest Charlotte (pronounced Sharr Luh-Tay) who'll be the most devastated of all, but the charade can not go on like this.

Readers may find themselves hard pressed to locate any sense of solidity or consistency amid this catalogue of written materials.

More of a style or a texture or a spirit or something else entirely derived of a similarly elusive compositional intangibility.

Readers may also find it equally difficult to identify any sense of uniform opinions or resolute convictions emanating from the movement of my lips as metaphor for the clicking-clacking symphony suddenly arising from my fingertips in bursts of insight and especially now in this particular instance as it sparks unimaginably peculiar interest.

Readers will undoubtedly find a certain sadistic impatience visible in my aggrotextual inclinations. Typically these typed tantrums tend toward chronic cravings for hormonal catharsis along with habitual forays into rhetorical adversarial-ism where you'll find me arguing several points of view simultaneously against themselves. Almost all of these POVs have contradicked one another at some point.

Most often they contradicked each other repeatedly over and over again every which way, butt loose front squatting, sideways aerial split, orally upside down, and full-throttle back ass-wards.

The display or exhibition of these self-contrived argumentative melees often resembles the spectacle of a masturbatory merry-go-round spinning in circular logic on some recklessly wobbly 46° axis too geometrically turbulent to endure for long. This reclaimed amusement park ride comes complete with rows of 4-way probe seating (e.g. bar stools turned over) as non-mechanical replacements for the bobbing horses.

Without a doubt this lack of faith in any one doctrine over another for an extended period is due to my complete inability to hold onto any particularly decisive set of ideas or notions of truth for more than a week or so as such behavior (even though considered normal) tends to go against inherent human psychology.

We all change our minds and experience a maelstrom of fleeting thoughts, emotions, urges, ambitions, and attitudes, but not all of us give in to the shifting currents. For the most part, people just naively continue playing their dealt hand and accept their losses no matter how great they grow instead of folding, cheating, or bluffing their way through it.

For whatever reason people are more likely to lose honestly than risk winning by any means necessary. Their balls are non-existent.

It is not the author's intention to be deliberately evasive or vague by hiding behind an obtuse vocabulary in order to make himself appear learned or possessed of superior intellect as that is far from the case.

It is, however, the author's intention to receive grafted funding by way of donation for his works and wonders on the world wide web.

  "And now, here's Ali Williams with our Black-U-Weather forecast:

it gonna rain

  Thanks, Ali, and in other news..."


In a blustery bluff of wintery bliss amidst nature's climatic vernal flux,  

That kid carryin' bountiful bundles of decrepit artifacts            



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