What falls off the tidbits of imagination are gleanings of real things which only seem to be what they truly are. Thus in the presence of this knowledge, I come to wondrous conclusions aboot the way things should have been. I ponder upon events in the past, the things which will shape the present, the future. I think of a mishmash of chaotic images which float violently in the recesses of existence as I perceive it. And as I assemble these pictures, these flashes, this pain, I realize that there exists an extreme in the domain of thoughts. Indeed the extreme exists in the fashion that time spent on thoughts, have a tendency to creep into hours better spent conducting other useful activities, such as sleeping, eating, enjoying life. Other solutions for these scenarios are found in the fact that, writing as dubiously as the human heart is capable of at its fullest potential, brings nothing but pathetic literature into the world. I believe that my grasp of grammar in the English language is flawed. Fetcher la vache.


And so with that I think I’ll trash this ridiculous exercise in the absurd.